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A?
4
67

oO

THE IRISH MONTHLY.

THE

IRISH MONTHLY

S Magazine of General Piterature

THIRTEENTH YEARLY VOLUME
1885

DUBLIN

M. H. GILL & SON, O’CONNELL STREET
LONDON: BURNS & OATES; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & 00.

M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN.

CONTENTS.

——

Srorzes.

Marcella Grace. By Rosa Mulholland,
Chapter I. Hor Mother was a Lady,
IL, Nothing Wrong, .
IIL. At Home in Merrion-square,
IV. Btrange Tidings, .
V. An Irish Cinderella, .
VI. St. Patrick's Ball,
‘VIL. Sackeloth and Ashes, .
VEIL Out of the Depths, .
IX. The Shadow of a Crime,
X. Homeward, :
XI. Inisheen, . :
XI. Distrema, .
XIII. Marcella a Landlord,
XIV. The Calm before the Storm,
XV. The Bolt Fall, .
XVI. God is Good, .
XVI (bis) The Missing Link, .
XVIL The Inquisitor, ©
XVIII. What the World said,

XIx. Thou shalt not bear False Witneas,

XX, In the Dock,
XXL. Corroborative Evidence,
XXII. Death and Life, .
XXII. Separation, . :
XXIV. The Convict’s Wife, .
XXV. Mike's End, :
XXVI. A Warning,
XXVIL. A Break in the Clouds,
XXVIII Sunrie, . .
Johnny’s Git, By Mrs. Frank Pentrill, .
‘A Troe Ghost Story. ByJ.J.K., . :

Sketcurs or Paces AND Parsons.

Notes of » Showt Tp to Spain, By John Fallon,

VII. Visit to the Mosque of Cordova,
QL Te

ag.
“3

vi Contents.

‘Notes of a Short Trip to Spain—(continued).
VOL Maki, noon
IX. Toledo, “. :

X. Homeward, . ;
Home-Life in Colorado. By Brendan Mac Carth;

‘An Irishwoman in Disguise (Mre. Jemeron.) By 3. F. North,

Lord O'Eagan, .

On the Wye. By Henry Bedford, .

Lady Georgiana Fullerton. By F.T., . :
The Late Bev, Joseph Farrell, . .
An Irish Nun in Foreign Parts,

A Valiant Soldier of the Cross By the Author of “ Lean from the Annals

of the Sisters of Mercy,”
‘The Crater of Vesuvius in an Eruption. By John Fallon,
An Trish Boy's Legacy to the Holy Childhood, .

Essays AND Reviews.

Our Contemporaries,
Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy,
Dr. Ricards on Faith and Unbelief, . .
Taking Cold. By Frances Kershaw,
‘The Craze of Fashion-following. By the Same,
An American Cyclopedia of Irish Poets, :
‘Miss Evelyn Pyne’s “ Dream of the Gironde,”
Our Poets :—No. 18, Arthur Gerald Geoghegan,

” No. 14. Katharine Murphy (‘ Brigid”)

» No. 15. Mrs. Mary E. Blake, -
Trish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary,
Hints to Students, .

‘Mise Tynan’s “Louise de la Valligre, &o,,”
Everyday Thoughts. By Mrs. Frank Pontrill.

No. IX. Old Maids, . .

Bailway Travelling. By Frances Kershaw, .
Bolics of a Certain Professor,» —. .
A Bookworm's Fast. By A, F. North, .
Dr. Ricards on the Catholic Rule of Faith, .
The October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle, .
‘Phen and Now. By Denny Lane, - .
“The Christmas Pantomime. By a Mother,

Normacgs or New Booxs.

‘Miss Rosa Mulholland’s Walking Trees and other Tales.—Mre. Frank Pentrill’s
Lina’s Tales.—Rev. Joseph Farrell’s Lectures of a Certain Professor.

Judge O'Hagan’s “Bong of Roland.”—Ohemey’s Land of the Pyramids.—
Bey. A. Young’s Catholic Hymnal.—St. George's Hymn-Tune Book.—Rev.
D. Chisholm’s Catholic Child’s Treasury—Mrs. Cashel Hoey’s Tale of the
‘Torror.—The Foundations of Death. —History of the Sodality B.V.M.—M.

Sinclair Allison’s Snowflakes and other Talee.— Art M‘Morrough, &c.

.

Burnett's Reasons why we should believe in God, love God, and obey God .—
Bpalding’s ‘History of the Ohureh.Tady C. Petr's Hymna sud Veroea.—
Mis Helens Callanan’s Gathered Leafet.—Hmerald Goms—Kason’s
‘Almanac for Ireland.—Frost’s How to Write a Composition.—Gaston de

Ségur.—Rosa Ferrucci.—8t. George's Hymn-Tune Book.

+ 106

Contents. vii

no
Mise Gallaher’s Lessons in Domestic Science.—Schmid’s Tales. —Miss Mulhol-
land's Walking Trees, &e.— Earl Nogent’s Daughter.—Watch and Hope—
Scholastic Avnual.—Lenten Meditations.— Don Boseo.— League of the Cross
‘Magasine.—Notes on Ingersoll, —Ravignan’s Last Retreat.—Dr. Magrath on
Ostholic Philosophy.—A. M. Sullivan's Speeches.—Mgr. Capel’s Catholic
Hints on Letter Writing, &0., &. . 166
“Louise la Vallitre and Other Poems” by Katharine Tynan.—Momeir of Jonny
White del Bal—A Marvellous History, &c.—Oharacteristica of Cardinal
‘Manning.—Walpole’s History of Ireland.—Irish Tonio Solfaist.—Mre de
Saumaise.— Victoire de Saint Luc. —Ecoles d’ Orient.—Dr. Sigerson on Vil-
Inge Hospitals, &o.—Mowsenger of St. Joseph.—Ellis's Education Directory.
—Croes of Monterey.—F. Morris's St. Thomas Becket.—Dr. M‘Devitt’s
Father Hand, . 914
Father Coleridge's Preperation for the Incarnation.—Advertiser’s Guardian. —
“Mary Foreshadowed.—Father Gavin's Decay of Faith.—The Theatre and
Christian Parents.—Mr. C. Russell's Lecture at Lurgan, &. - 276
‘Miss Katharine Tynan’s Poems.—Miss Clara Mulholland’s Linda’s Mistortunes.
—Dr. Gargan’s Charity of the Church.— Father Gavin's Dangers of Faith—
Rev. H. Browne's Handbook of Greek Composition.—Confraternity of the
Immaculate Conception.—A Troubled Heart and How it was Comforted . 331
French Translation of Miss Mulholland.—A Noble Heart.—Women of Catho-
licity—Home Duties and Home Difficulties.—Saints of Wessex.—The
Martyr Prince.—Exiled from Erin.—Ave Maria Series Hampton Court
Palace.—Mary in the Gospels.—Eve of the Reformation.—Boston College
Btylus—Dr. More Madden on Ohild Culture.—Dr. Walsh’s Grammar of
Gregorian Music.—Mr. Goodman's School and Home Song Book.—Handi-
craft for Handy People.—Life of St. Emmelia.—Life of Father Labonde, &o. 383
Mr. J. Gillow’s Biographical Dictionary of English Catholic. —Monsignor
Dillon’s Mother of Good Counsel.—Thoughte in Verse.—Irish Penny Read-
ings.--Dr. Jungman's Dissertationes Selects in Historiam Ecclesiasticam.—
‘Wild Flowers.—The Battle of Fontenoy.—Philosophia, a Lyrical Sequence.
Our Own Will, and How to Detect it in our Actions. —Facts of Faith, or
First Lessons in Christianity—The Lost Glove.—God’s Way, Men's Way:
a Story of Bristol, &c. . . 40
Rev. F. Thaddeus’s Mary Foreshadowed—The Lion and the Frog,—Sketch of
the Life of 8t. Francis of Assisi—Contemplations and Meditations on the
Public Life of our Lord Jesus Christ. —Mousighor Dillon's Mother of Good
Oounsel.— What will the World Say.—Irish Penny Readings.—Irish Eecle-
siastical Record.—Hibernia.—League of the Cross Magasine.—Catholic
Child’s Bible History.—Cardinal Moran's Ireland from the Reformation to
the Year 1800.—Very Rev. M. Comerford’s History of the United Dioceses
of Kildare and Leighlin, . . 495
“The Rev. Felix Martin's Life of Father Toques.— rish Penny Readings.—The
Price of Peace in Ireland.—Miriam and Other Poems,—All is not Gold
that Glitters.—Practical Instructions for New Confersors.—The Little One’s
Own Coloured Picture Paper—The Most Bev. Dr. Walsh, Prelate and
. Patriot.—Christian Ohildhood.—Lays of St. Joseph's Chapel.—The Revolt
. of the Notherlands.—The Pilgrim of Our Lady of Martyrs.—Catholic Con-
troversial Letters.—Controversy between the Rev. B, B. KaneandS.J. © . 554
- Catholic Life and Letters of Cardinal Newman.—A Saint among Sainte.—Mr.
. Chesney's Ramble round France.—One Angel more in Heaven.—Celtio Irish
_Bongs and Song-writers,—A Schoolmaster’s Retrospect of Hightéen and =
Half Years in an Irish School.—The Art of Oratorical Composition. —Some
Notes on Popular Preaching, 7 . : . 588

viii con Contents.

‘Mise Mulholland’s Pooms.—Second edition of “Louise de la Vallidre.”—The
Trish Beclesiaatical Becord.—-Life of St. Vincent de Puul.—Life aa we Live
it—Onoe a Month.—The Gaelic Jouraal.—Wreaths of Roses. Historical
‘Notes on Adare.—The Defenders of the Faith: the Boyal Title, ita History
and Value—A Book of Bules on the Gender of French Nouns —Holy

Childhood, . . . . : .
PogMs AND MISCELLANEOUS Papers.

Pigeonhole Paragraphs, . . . . . 45, 409

Winged Word . . . + 889, 446, 502, 687

Soraps from Father Burke's Letters “—. . . . .. 90

'Taedet me Vite, By Frances Kershaw, : : + B

Londonderry Bells. By John Kane, - . . . 8

Gleanings from Thomas á Eempis . . 38, 416

After Aughrim. By the Author of “The Monks of Kilores,” 75
Integer Vite. Translated by Sir Stephen De Vere, Bart, - - 90
To Nora in Heaven. BYH.J.G. . . . . 10
‘Two Wayfarers. By Katharine Tynan, . . 194
‘The Trinity in the Taper. By Eleanor Donnelly, . . . 139
The Old Thorn. By Sir Stephen de Vere, Bart., . . . 165
The Minstrel Boy. Translated into Latin by J. G. . . . 166
“*Lovest thou Me?” By Mrs. Frank Pentrill, - . . 188
De Arte Poeticn. An Amaboean Lay. By 7.G. . . . + 200
At Daybreak. By Katharine Tynan. . . . : +211
Hore de Passione Domini. Translated by O. . . . . 212
Ina Garden. By Katharine Tynan. . . us
Answers to Correspondents in the old Nation, . . . 261, 316
The Month of Mary. ByG.RK. . : . .m
‘The Island of Saints and of Scholars. By 8. M.8. . 297
Horace, Book IV., Ode 7. Translated by Sir Stephen De Vere, Bart, a

‘A Promise. By Helena Callanan,
‘The Proud Lady of Falkenschloss. By the Author. of“ The: Monks of Kileres,” bh
The Sacristan of Roumania. By Marian 9. Le Puy, . .

‘A Soul Question. By Evelyn Pyne, . : .

For the Last Time. By Frances Kershaw,

‘The Clock of Kochem. ‘Translated from the German by Arthur G. Geoghegan
A Comforter. By Evelyn Pyne, . : .
Clarence Mangan’s Te Dewn, . . :

I Love the Old Songs. By Richard E. White, . .
Awakening. By Evelyn Pyne, . . .
After Death. By Katharine Tynan, . H .
From out the Darkness. By R. E. . .

The Lord’s Pity. By Evelyn Pyne,

The Solitary’s Guest. By the Rey. M. Byrnes, S.J.
Sanctuary. By Katbarine Tynan, . .

Old Letters, ByM.AC. . :

‘An Autumnal Lyric. By Eleanor Donnelly, . .
Providence. By Kinnersley Lewis, . . H
An Unpublished Lettar by Thomas Carlyle, . .
Gerald Griffin. By Rose Kavanagh, - . .
Left Behind. By Evelyn Pyne, : . .
Immaculate. By G. R-K. . . : .
Bo Brave. By Sister Mary Agnes - . . P

BBHREE

SRSSRERSRARESRRSE

MARCELLA GRACE.

BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,
AUTHOR OF \( MESTER’® HISTORY,” “(THR WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL,” “ELDEROOWAN,””
‘THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETC., XTC.

CHAPTER I.
HER MOTHER WAS A LADY.

r that part of Dublin known as the Liberties there lived an old

man called Grace with his daughter Marcella. The father,
though an uneducated son of the people, had seen better days, had
once been a master-weaver, and had married a lady. But the
daughter never had seen better days, her mother, the lady, had
been dead before she could walk, and all the good times were
gone before she had sense to be aware of their existence. “The old
man had of late years gradually sunk to his original level, and con-
soled himself with a single loom and his pipe; and the daughter,
while mending his clothes and striving to make him comfortable,
had somehow grown into a woman.

They lived in a quaint old part of the Liberties, called Weaver's-
square, a spot that reminded one of a dilapidated nook of some
ancient foreign town, for the houses of dark brick were built with
high-peaked fronts, and flat narrow windows, and had peculiarities
of their own which marked them as of a different quality from the
roder and uglier dwellings that surrounded them. It was a place
inhabited by poplin weavers ever since the establishment of the
trade in the neighbourhood, by Huguenot settlers in the olden time.
Tabinet-weaving, once a flourishing art, is now on the wane and
threatening to decay. Michael Grace had gone down with the
trade, and was now dragged lower every day by the increasing
infirmities of years.

The house in which they lived stood at the entrance to the
square, and was larger than the rest, with some heavy stone-carving
about the hall-door, and massive sills to the windows. The dwelling
had probably been at one time the country-house of gentlefolks,
and had got built up to, and walled around, and had found itself
caught in a network of foul streets, and long left behind by its old
frequenters. With the perpetual frown under ita windows, and

Vou. xnz., No 139. January, 1885. 2

2 Marcella Grace.

the streams of damp on its walls, it had a brooding, weeping look,
which seemed ever to deplore its reverse of fortune. In his palmy
days, Grace had bought the old house, and furnished it in a man-
ner which he had considered splendid ; and here he had brought
his wife, who had never, certainly, seen the neighbourhood before,
who probably had not liked it, and who here had died. Marcella
had been born in the house, and there was something about its
aspect which seemed to harmonise with the character of the girl.
In spite of its sad and lonesome air, it had also its gracious aspect,
and held the same relation to the other houses in the streets that
Marcella occupied among the people, being one of themselves,
though standing a little apart, and, undoubtedly, a good deal the
pride, and slightly the envy of its neighbours. Its glory was a
thing of the past, like the good fortune of the Graces, for it had
become so dilapidated that it was with difficulty the weaver and his
daughter were able to make their home in a corner of it.

Yet, in spite of all difficulties, Marcella, by virtue of some
gift in her eyes and fingers, contrived to make the dingy place
something a little different from the ordinary of such homes.
Strips of old amber tabinet, much faded with frequent cleaning,
hanging by the window, and other such contrivances, gaye the
room she lived in a character of itsown She would go without
her breakfast to buy a penny bunch of yellow spring flowers,
to place in the brown pitcher, which. was the best vase she could
find, on the corner of the dark old loom that caught the’ sun-
light as it fell through the window. Her floor was always scrupu-
lously sanded, and her fireside bright and swept. Neighbours who
came to ask her help or advice could not tell what it was that made
the old weaver’s room so home-like. The walls were as crooked as
other folks’ walls, the ceiling as dark with age and smoke, and the
light as scant, for it was not in the handsomer rooms of his house
that he harboured in his latter days, nor had the Graces preserved
any smart pieces of furniture to show that they had come down in
the world. Housewives of the decenter order came and went away
again perplexed. There was something in old Grace's room which
they could not describe, and which they did not see when they
went home.

Even from the outside, Marcella’s window, when she happened
to stand by it, would strike a stranger who might happen to be
peering about the ancient street, and might wake in him—if he
happened to-be imaginative and a traveller—a memory of Italy.
He had seen a richly tinted face, a dark picturesque head; like the

Marcella Grace. 8

head of a Roman girl framed in a gueer worm-eaten window frame
based by a sill with fantastic carving, and behind it a glow of yel-
low drapery had shone dimly through the shadows and glinted into
the light. And if it chanced to be sunset hour, when the sunshine
would suddenly cover one strip of the house, like the unfurling of
a long red banner against the time-darkened walls, then deep un-
suspected hues would come out of the weather-stained bricks,
enhanced by the intensified shadows under the sullen brown window
frames, and in the cavernous chambers behind the sashes.

Certainly the Graces’ room would not have been a cheerful one
if anyone else had lived in it, if Marcella had been allowed to go
elsewhere to earn her bread, or if the fever had not spared her the
last time it went its fiery way through the Liberties, burning up
human life like chaff before flame. The better class of neighbours
were aware of this, and would have been sorry to see her depart ;
for though she did stand a little aloof from them, it was only a
little. Were anyone sick or in trouble, Marcella forgot her reserve.
She was a credit to the street when she went out to do her scanty
bit of marketing, for she walked with the step of a lady in her
bonnet which was no better than their own. And why should she
not do so, since her mother was a lady? In the girl’s simple
superiority there was little that could offend even the most envious
or ill-conditioned. In spite of her unusual beauty she never in-
terfered with the lovers of other girls ; never had had one herself
and seemed. willing to have none. Then she was useful to the
mothers’ as a model to be held up to the daughters. Sometimes
young wives did not like having her thrift thrust in their teeth by
cross husbands ; but on the whole she was popular. The very old
men liked her the best, and the young men least of all, the latter
feeling awed by her gravity, and by a certain involuntary haughti-
ness in the carriage of her head which made them humble and
awkward when (as on rare occasions) they happened to find them-
selves in her presence.

A damp winter afternoon was just closing, the thick yellow
daylight fading in the street, and dingy lights springing up in the
windows. In the weaver’s room dusk was shifting gradually along
the walls and through the panes, and, seeing it depart, a small fire
began to find courage to burn, and darted little javelins of flame
into the gloom, making the silent loom look like some ungainly
ogre who was trying, vainly, to hide himself in Fá ighadows of the
corner.

Marcella put down her sewing, and straightened ‘her ‘limbs,

4 Marcella Grace.

which were stiffened with the fatigue of sitting still. She had
been at work since morning and had earned a shilling. She peered
out before drawing the curtain across the window, looking anxiously
for her father coming home. There was poplin on the loom which
ought to be finished to-morrow. Why had he always forbidden
her to learn to do his work? She stood before the loom gazing at
it with bent brows, as at an enemy with whom she was powerless
to grapple; while she thought of her terrible helplessness as a
woman, and the urgent need of aid from some quarter which she
felt more and more as the days went by, and her father grew less
inclined to work. And then the door opened and Michael Grace
came in, and sat down at the fire.

He was a tall old man, with arms that seemed loose at the
joints, long rugged features, and an indolent, not ill-humoured
expression of countenance, but with a warning spark smouldering
in the corner of his eye which might easily be quickened into anger.
He looked like one who would do a good turn if it cost him no
trouble, but who would shirk a burden if he could. The world
might slip away from his large limp hands if the holding it fast
were to cost him much effort. And it had slipped away from him,
taking with it his comfortable house, his workmen, his mastership,
and many busy looms. But he was old now, and he had his pipe.
Could he but live without toiling, he were content. It was slow
getting money out of yonder weary old loom ; but Marcella, the
girl there, knew more about money than he did. She contrived his
cup of tea and his tobacco. Could her magic but reach the length
of providing for herself and her old father, then indeed, he would
be glad of her and proud of her. But no ; he never had got her
taught a trade. Her mother had been a lady; let the world
remember that. His daughter had enough to do about her own
fireside. He needed his little comforts looked after. Were she to go
running about after millinering and dressmaking what kind of
life would her old father have at home? Well, well, she had a
handsome face. No brighter eyes were to be seen about Dublin.
He had turned the matter over in his mind. Never fear but she
would do her work well some day.

Michael Grace lit his pipe and smoked, and Marcella stood
waiting at the opposite side of the hearth. Should she dare to
light the evening lamp? No; her father might be angry, thinking
she wanted him to work.

The weaver extended his large feet to the blaze, and smoked
with great zest. He was dreaming that he lay at ease in a snug

Marcella Grace. 5

arm-chair by the side of a fire that was not likely to go out, and
that he had no other duty than to smoke all day long, with a
pleasant odour of plentiful food in his atmosphere. Old Michael's
castle in the air was a substantial one, and he thought he knew the
road to it well.

“T'm gettin’ old, my girl, an’ I feel myself full of aches and
pains. Whisht, now, ye needn’t look so scared. It’s only ould
age that’s come down on me. I’m not goin’ to be makin’ many
more gran’ gownds for the ladies, an’ that’s all.”

Marcelle’s face grew pale in the firelight. She had hardly
thought this day so near at hand.

“You've got cold, father!” she said, briskly. “Cheer up and
let me nurse you a while.”

“No such a thing !” cried the father, angrily. “TI tell you Im
grown old, an’ I look to have my rest.”

Marcella sat silent. Many items of trouble were cast up in her
mind on the moment into a long account—owing to the baker,
dinner to-morrow—rent at the end of the week. Next week—
next month—next year!”

“Father,” said she presently, “why did you not give me a
trade P” .

“A trade! Puff!” The old man drew away his pipe, and
made a contemptuous flourish with his hand. “ Your mother was
a lady, girl. Remember that.”

Marcella had heard such an answer before. She had spoken
on the subject many times: maybe once too often, for she was
silent now.

“Ay,” echoed the weaver, “she was arale lady. No better
blood ever danced a Pathrick’s dance in the four ould walls of the
Castle yonder—black as it is wid the age, and big asit is wid the
size. It was a Pathrick’s Night that I seen her the first.’

“My masther had an order on hands of blue tabinet for Her
Excellencyess the Lady Liftenant. Holiday as it was I had to
stay at the finishing of it. I worked very hard to get the evenin’
to myself; but it was far in the night when the parcel was ready.
‘Well, well,’ I said, ‘I'll just take the bundle in my hands, and go
up to the Castle at the wanst wid it. An’ maybe Molly Sullivan
‘ll contrive to get me a sight of the quality at their dancin.”
Molly was a tidy little maid at the Castle, an’ there’s little she
wouldn’t ha done for me at the time.’

“Its myself was in the right, for Molly found me apeep-hole.
At first I could see an’ hear nothing, for the whole place was in

6 Marcella Grace.

wan uproar of splendiour. 'The music was fit to make your heart
burst in two halves wid the delight. Molly said they were dancin’,
but I only saw the ladies sailin’ up an’ down the room like swans
in a river, an’ the gentlemen follyin’ them, an’ meetin’ them, an’
bowin’ to them.

“I was hardly drawing my breath wid admiration when my
eyes lit on wan little face : an’ never could they leave it the rest of
the time. She was shy and frightened lookin’ someways—Molly
said because it was her first Castle ball. She was as beautiful as a
fairy, an’ as happy as a queen. I thought she had the purtiest
pair of eyes that ever were planted in any mortal head. An’ she
was dressed out all in white, wid a long poplin train ; an’ what but
Michael should set about thinkin’ maybe ’twas his hands that wove
the very piece! Molly knew all about her: in the regard of her
sister being the little jewel’s maid.

“I went home that night grumblin’ to myself because I wasn’t
a gentleman ; that I couldn’t wear a uniform, nor ruffles, nor silk
stockings; for then I might ha’ been leadin’ her about as proud
as e’er a wan o’ them, an’ bowin’ to her, an’ meetin’ her, an’ follyin’
her through the crowd. But in a few days I forgot about it all.
Times took a good turn wid me, an’ my head was full o’ the lucre
0’ the world.

“Five or six years went by, an’ I had got to be a master-
weaver. I had taken this ould house the best in the street,
an’ made it look tidy, an’ furnished it up handsome. An’ it’s
little I thought who I was doing it for. An’ when it was finished
there was somethin’ the matter wid me. An’ wan day the truth
hit me hard; an’ I says to myself, ‘Michael Grace,’ says I,
“you're a lonesome man !’ An’ then an order came in, an’ I forgot
about it again. An’ that same day I was walkin’ down the street,
an’ who should I light upon but little Molly Sullivan.

“Well, well, Misther Grace!’ said she; ‘ but it’s you has got
up in the world since the Pathrick’s night when ye came up to the
castle wid the poplin.’

“Tt thrue for you, Molly,’ said I, ‘an’ I hope things goes
aiqually as well wid yourself.”

“I'm not goin’ to complain,’ said Molly; ‘ but it’s badly the
times has gone wid some since then. Do you remember the little
lady you fell in love wid at the Pathrick’s ball P Well, she’s down
now, lower nor you nor me.”

“é What do you mane ?’ said I, for well I minded her.

“The father went to ruin that year,’ said Molly,‘ wid his

Marcella Grace. 7

‘horses, an’ his hounds, an’ his dinners. Hunted himeelf to death,
an’ his poor wife wid him. An’ what was the daughter but a
child P—an’ her friends has dropped off, an’ the world has turned
against her. An’ she’s trying to airn her bread, the poor crature,
doin’ little bits of sewin’ that wouldn't feed a cat. But it’s in
the graveyard she'll be afore long,’ said Molly.

“‘That’s what Molly said, an’ it was thrue. Molly was mar-
ried only middlin’ herself. She had a corner to let, an’ the poor
little lady was livin’ wid her. I seen her at the place, by the way
I should give an order for work, an’ the purty young face was
thin an’ worn, an’ she had no more pride than a babby. For three
Jong years I stood her friend, fast an’ firm, till Molly died, rest her
sowl! an’ there wasn't a crature left to take care of the little lady.
I don’t know where I got the courage to ask her to marryme. I
tould her I wasn’t fit to spake to her, I knew; but I could give her
a safe home, an’ I could worship the ground she walked. An’ she
took it quite quiet, an’ was thankful to me till the last day she
lived. An’ the ould house was beautiful to go into from ever the
first day she set her foot upon the floor, an’ ill luck ne’er came
near me till she left it in her coffin. I made her the purtiest
gowns that ever seen the loom; but she didn’t like the gay ones, I
could see: seemed as if they minded her o’ somethin’! An’ she
never wanst gave me thecrooked word. It was ‘ Yes, Michael, if
ye plase,’an’‘ No, Michael, if ye plase.’ She got rosy an’ happy-
lookin’ for wan little while, after the child was born—that was you,
Marcella. Then she faded like the snow off the ditch.”

Old Michael paused and drew his hand across his eyes. Mar-
cella had listened to every word. The tale was not new to her,
yet it never had grown wearisome. Many a time had her fancy
seen that pretty girl-lady, her mother, dancing in glee, among
her peers, at the great Castle ball. Of Patrick-nights, when the
carriages were rolling to the Castle, she had sat late over her fire
and studied the brilliant picture. Very dazzling were the lights,
very gloomy the shades: and Marcella’s thoughtful eyes had
marked them all.

Many a time, too, had she lingered, passing the old house
before entering it. She had peered in at the windows, and had
seen the gentle creature with her baby in her arms. Up and
down she had seen her pacing softly, pondering in mild amazement
the sadness of the changes in her life. So this mother was like a
dream or a story, but with a difference. In passing away she had
left something behind her. Her strange little fate had made a

& Marcella Grace.

mark upon her narrow bit of world: an unusual niark which would
‘be seen and recognised. She had left a nature with her daughter
which was foreign to the class to which that daughter must
belong. And this Marcella had observed in her own untutored
way

“Bo that bein’ the story of your mother,” said the weaver,
“ never spake again about learnin’ a thrade. I'll settle you like a
lady in a house of your own, an’ Michael will have a seat in the
chimney corner.”

“Father! ” cried Marcella, startled out of her dream.

“Buy yourself a ribbon, and begin to look handsome,” he
went on, “for I’ve made a fine match for you. And I'll weave
you a weddin’ gown that'll stand alone.”

Marcella sprang forward and stood trembling before him.

“Oh, no, father! I will not have that !” she cried, hastily.

The weaver took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at her.
How handsome she looked, even when she was a bit troublesome,
like this. It was well she was, or the well-to-do grocer on the
quay would never have taken a fancy to her, as she stepped out of
the chapel-door on Sundays.

“Not have what ?” he asked, peevishly. “‘ Maybe ye'd like a
thrade to work at, betther nor a husband to airn for ye P”

“I would,” said Marcella, eagerly.

“ Ye're a fool,” shouted the weaver, “and ye'll go to the poor-
house! It’s the cursed proud blood of strangers that’s workin’ in
ye, settin’ ye against the biddin’ of yer father !”

Michael was angered and disappointed in his daughter. Would
any other girl in the world not have been thoroughly charmed with
his plan? But there was always a queer turn in her, wherever
she came from. Her eyes might be like her mother’s, now when
they had tears in them, but it was not her mother’s humble spirit
that had looked out of them a minute ago.

He got up impatiently, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
went off to bed in a sulk, leaving a frightened, aching heart, and
the unfinished tabinet behind him.

Marcella lit the poor but neatly trimmed lamp, and unfolded a
new piece of sewing. It wasstill early in the night, and she could,
perhaps, earn sixpence before the great bell of St. Patrick's Cathe-
dral should boom forth, calling the hour of midnight over the city.
And meantime she could give herself up to her own sad and spe-
culating thoughts, undisturbed except by the occasional too-familiar
sounds of quarrelling in the streets, as men and women, turned: out

Marcella Grace.

of the late-closing taverns in the neighbourhood, passed under the
window, on their way to wretched homes.

Shuddering over the announcement her father had just made, of
his desire to marry her to some well-to-do man of his own, or not
much better than his own, class, she assured herself again and again
that this was a matter in which she hada right to refuse obedience
to him. Though she was certainly his child, and would always
devote herself lovingly to his service, yet she had, as he had angrily
complained, blood in her veins which was different from his. The
instincts of her mother, of whose ladyhood he so proudly boasted,
were with her, and she felt that they would cling to her as long as
she lived. She acknowledged to herself now, what through loyalty
to him she had often tried to deny and ignore, that there wasa gulf
between herself and his friends and associates, which time would
never help her to bridge. It was not that she disliked or despised.
the poor people around her, but they were not of her class, and she
was not of theirs. She could help them, sympathise with them,
pity them, respect them as occasion required, but she could not
take a husband of their kind.

Dropping her work and covering her face with her hands, she
gave way to her grief and wept. Having faced the loneliness,
the isolation of her position in the world, she perceived the mis-
fortune that her birthright of refinement must be to her, the
burden of solitude that it laid upon her. Must she spend her
whole life sewing alone in a garret, as now, after her father had
left her, when she should indeed be alone in the world? He must
really be ill, must feel himeelf breaking down, or he never would
have talked as he had talked this evening. Oh, why had he not
given her a trade, not taught her something by which she could
earn for him now, by which she should be able to maintain herself
after he was gone P

She thought of the very small amount of education she had
received; not sufficient to enable her to be a National School
teacher without further study. She could read and write well,
better than most ladies (though of that she knew nothing), and had
read and re-read the few treasured books which her mother had
left behind her, and which the weaver had always preserved with
a sort of superstitious reverence. The “Imitation of Christ,”
Wordsworth’s Poems, and a New Testament were the staple of
Marcella’s library.

Though her fingers were naturally clever at putting feminine
odds and ends together, she had received no teaching to enable

10 Marcella Grace.

her to be a dressmaker or milliner. And who was to support her
while she learned such handicrafts, even if she were free to
begin now? She knew nothing of artistic work, such as ladies do,
and which she had often looked at admiringly in the windows of
shops where such things are to be sold.

Her thoughts strayed longingly towards the convent where she
had received her scanty education at a daily school, to the hospital
where the bright-faced Sisters of Charity pass their days in tending
the sick and the dying. Oh, could she be even a lay-sister under
such a blessed roof! But how could she hope to be good enough,
clever enough, strong enough? Now, at all events, she could not
desert her father. She must endure his anger, she must stitch
night and day—

A subdued but persistent sound of urgent knocking here inter-
rupted the course of her thoughts. She dropped her work and
listened. It was at the streetdoor. Someone was wanting admit-
tance to the house. As she sat listening in absolute wonder, the
summons was repeated, softly, rapidly, imploringly.

CHAPTER II.
NOTHING WRONG.

Mancgtta got up from her seat, and went down into the mildewed
old hall, and spoke through the keyhole. -

“Who wants to get in so late at night? I cannot open.”

“Open for God's sake!” said a voice. “’Tis a matter of life
and death.”

More information as to character is sometimes conveyed in the
tones of a voice than in the expression of an eye, and Marcella,
believing instinctively in the owner of the voice, opened the door
without further hesitation. Inan instant it was shut again by a
pair of strong hands, and a man was standing in the darkness in
the hall beside her.

By the very faint ray of lamplight that came through the
dusty and broken fanlight, she could just see that he was tall and
dark, pale and weary looking.

“You have done a good act,” he said; “I am more thankful
than I can say. Will you go further, and find mea hiding-place
fora few hours? I trust myself entirely into your hands.,)But

Marcella Grace. it

first: of all, let me assure you before God that I have done nothing
wrong.’

“It is a serious thing,” said Marcella, hurriedly, for the urgency
of his manner pressed her. “I am a young girl, and my father
is an old man, and there are only two of us in the house. We are
very poor, and I think if you were not good we should hardly be
worth your notice. And if you are good and in trouble —”

“TI do not boast of much goodness, but I am not a wicked man,
and I am in astrait. Is there any place in the house where you
could conceal me? I have reason to fear I have been watched,
and may be searched for here.”

“ There isa place,” said Marcella, “though not a comfortable:
one. Come upstairs and I will show it to you.”

She led the way up the worm-eaten stair. Old Michael Grace
slept heavily, and the light sound of their feet did not wake him.
Marcella knew that the times were troubled, and that it was a
moment when a man might be in a strait through his political
opinions. She therefore asked no more questions and hoped for’
the best. At all events, once fastened up in the old secret closet
behind the panel in the unused room, at some distance from that
in which she and her father lived, the stranger would be safe, and
also incapable of delivering himself till she should choose to release:
him with her own hands. Even if he were a robber-

She fetched her small lamp, and holding it over her head rejoined
the stranger on the threshold of the mouldy and deserted room,
into which she had introduced him.

A robber! What a fool she must be to have allowed such an
idea to cross her mind for an instant, was her thought as she glanced
at the face on which the meagre lamplight fell. It was the:
thoughtful face of a cultivated gentleman, a countenance of no
ordinary cast, pale, thin, and worn, with a look of noble resolve and
manly determination on the brow and mouth.

‘Such a man could do, could think no wrong,” thought Mar-
cella, with enthusiasm, while the piercing gray eyes of the stranger
scanned her own face and form, wondering much, even in the midst
of his own anxiety, that so beautiful and intelligent a creature
should be found harbouring in this rotten old shelter in the midst
of the poverty and squalor of the city slums.

“The closet is here, sir,” she said, putting her hand on the:
wood that still lined the strong-built walls. “It was evidently
made for a hiding-place in the old times, and I think nobody:
remembers its existence but me.”

12 Marcella Grace.

For a moment her words, and unconsciously graceful action as
she looked over her shoulder at him, suggested the conceit that
this was no woman who had come to his aid, but the ghost of some
long-dead lady of quality, who had once dwelt in state in the now
dilapidated mansion, and who had come back opportunely to reveal
to him the secret of her house, pleased that there had occurred yet
another opportunity for the service of the once needful hiding-

lace.

P Marcella threw open a door, formed by the panel, which creaked
on its rusty hinges, and disclosed a small chamber long enough for
a man to lie his full length in, and high enough to allow of his
standing upright. It smelt of decay and damp, and was as dark
as a dungeon.

“Jt is ventilated through the outer wall,” she said; “so you
cannot be smothered. At what time shall I come back to let you
out Pe”

« About an hour before daylight, if you will be eo good.”
He was going to say something more when a loud knocking
began to resound upon the street door which had so lately ad-
mitted him.

Marcella instantly closed the closet and extinguished her light,
which, as the room was a back one, could not have been yet seen by
the new applicants for admittance to the house. Then she crept
away to the little room where she slept, got into bed, and lay still.
This time she was determined she would not open the door to
strangers.

The knocking went on for five or ten minutes, and at last
became so loud and imperious that Michael Grace was awakened
by it.

7 The old man sat up in his bed and listened in astonishment.
It did not seem to him that the house was on fire, and what other
reason could there be for such an assault upon his house after
midnight? Grumbling, and muttering a few characteristic oaths,
he groped out of his room and went stumbling down the staircase,
and confronted the assailant of his knocker (a knocker that was
one of the few relics of grandeur the old fellow had got to be proud
of) with a face of thunder.

At the sight of the police his countenance altered, not for the
better, however, and a storm of abuse greeted the stalwart
servants of the law.

“You great overgrown fools,” he said, “ what brought you to

Harcella Grace. 13

an honest man’s dure at such an hour of the night—or mornin’ P—
bad scran to me if I know which of them it is!”

“ Aisy, Miether Grace, aisy ! ” said the head policeman. “It’s
not you we have to do with. But you see there’s been a bad job
done to-night —”

“ Of course there has!” sneered Grace. “ Many’s the bad job

done ivery night that you've got no eyes to see, Mister Omad-
haun. Why didn’t you take whoever was afther doin’ the job that
ye’re talkin’ of, an’ not come routin’ adacent man out of his bed
to tell him the news that he could wait for till mornin’.”

“Come, come,” said the policeman. “I tell you I am going
to search your house. We have reason to suspect that a person
concerned in the affair is in hiding here.”

“Dropped down the chimney, I suppose, or into the letter-
box,” said Grace, talking in a sarcastic tone, and glancing towards
the slit in the massive door (another source of his pride), where a
letter-box once had been. “ Nothing more likely to happen in the
world, Misther Peeler, when a dacent man is asleep ——”

Here the policemen put the master of the house aside, and
walked noisily up the crazy stair, followed by a volley of impre-
cations of a ludicrous and harmless character from the exasperated
Grace.

“ You unmannerly giant; may you grow so broad that no door
will be able to recave you! May ye live to have to boil yer
potatoes in that ugly pot of a helmet ye wear on your stupid
head!”

By this time the policemen were searching the house, followed
by Grace threatening and abusing them.

“Tl have ye up before the Lord Liftenant himself, so I will.
Where’s yer warrant P The law’s agin you ——”

“Whisht, man,” said the second policeman, good-humouredly.
“Do you think ye are in England? Cock ye up with a warrant!
Don’t ye know you're livin’ under the Coercion Act ?”

“ Bedad, so I am,” said Grace, ‘an’ I forgot it entirely. Well,
now, Mr. Policeman, are you satisfied that nobody is here? Nicely
you've let misther, what's his name—Captain Mconlight—I beg
his pardon—slip through your fingers!”

“ There's a room here that we have not opened.”

“My daughter’s room. Then do you want me to brain you P”

But at the same moment Marcella appeared at her door.

“Let them come in, father. You know it is the law.”

“ Beg pardon, Miss, but we have to do our duty.”

Vou, xim., No. 139. 3

14 Marcella Grace.

In a few seconds the big men of the massive belts and helmets
were out on the landing again, admitting to each other that they
had got on a wrong scent. The house had been easy enough to
search. Except in the corner of it occupied by the weaver and his
daughter, there was no furniture behind which a man could hide.
A look into the empty rooms, with their decaying ceilings and
floors, was sufficient, and even the inhabited chambers could not
have long concealed a cat. With another apology to Marcella, the
policemen soon turned on their heels and retreated from the
place, followed by the gibes and jeers of the master of the dilapi-
dated dwelling.

Marcella stood fora moment irresolute on the threshold of her
room, as her father came grumbling up the stair again after
fastening the door. Should she tell him what she had done,
relieve her mind of the responsibility she had incurred, and place
the fate of the concealed stranger in his hands? She felt that she
could not do it. There was no knowing what view a man so
uncertain of humour, though with so good a heart as her father,
might take of the affair. If he chose to make up his mind
instantly that the refugee was a criminal, skulking from justice, he
might deliver him up and undo the good she had done, for she felt
assured that it was good. On the other hand, a knowledge of
what had occurred this night might at some future time involve the
old man in difficulty and danger. He had acted in all sincerity in
dismissing the police. She alone was accountable for misleading
them ; and so she elected to remain. Let her take the sole respon-
sibility of her impulsive action.

Grace returned to his bed, and the girl crept back to hers, to
lie awake, counting the hours by the strokes of St. Patrick's bell,
waiting for the moment for her prisoner’s release, and thinking
anxiously over this strange event that had broken upon the poverty-
stricken monotony of her existence.

Her imagination was possessed by a troubled wonder as to the
“bad job” that had been done. How had that man with the
noble face got himself mixed up in such an affair? Though she
did not read the papers, Marcella heard enough of what they con-
tained from her father, who was a lively politician (as what Irishman
is not P) to be well aware that she was living in troubled times,
that a struggle was going on between class and class which she
could not understand, and that wicked deeds had been done.

In her secret heart Marcella was on the side of the powers
that be. The spirit of her lady-mother’s forefathers was at this

Marcella Grace. 15

moment more strong within her than sympathy with the “ people,”
who were to her represented chiefly by the drinking, idle, and
disorderly crowd, who made the alums around her hideous on a
Saturday night.

Her heart yearned towards the beings of nice living, retined
habits, and finer perceptions, whom she vaguely knew as the upper
classes, and of whose kind she felt herself to be. More wise, more
intelligent, better educated than the others, why should they not be
more fitted to regulate the affairs of the world? She trusted them,
blindly following the instinct that was in her blood. She reflected
now that if an outrage had been committed in the streets, the
gentleman in her keeping was little likely to have been concerned
init.

Had the man been of a coarser mould, had he failed, when
seen, to match with the vibrations of his voice, which had gained
admittance by appealing to her charity, she should, she told her-
self, have wakened her father directly and placed the affair in his
hands. But the secret of a person like this she could venture to
keep to herself. Something which she could not have described in
the stranger’s face, an expression not easily analysed even by
persons accustomed to ticket and label their thought, had impressed
the untutored girl so vividly that the countenance must henceforth
remain on her memory as the incarnation of all that was strong,
chivalrous, and stainless in manhood.

Quick and keen in her perceptions, she recognised this fact as
she lay thinking, and was glad that she had seen the face. During
the rest of that life of hers which was to be spent sewing in a
garret among coarse surroundings, she could hold it in her memory,
much as she cherished the picture of her patron saint upon the wall.

At last hearing the hour beginning to toll at which she was to
give back his liberty to the intruder, she arose, dressed quickly,
and not daring to strike a light, made her way by the glimmer of —
the faint moonlight into the mouldy recesses of the panelled
chamber. The closet was quickly opened, and the stranger stepped
out of it.

“TI heard the police making search,” he said, “and I know
how prudent you have been for my sake. How is it possible for
me to thank you ?”

“I want no thanks,” said the girl. “The poor are accustomed
to do any little good turn they can. It was fortunate for you that
you happened to knock at this door, though ; for in no other house
would there have been a closet like that.”

16 Harcella Grace.

“Yes, it was providential ; I do not overlook that part of it.
But any other girl would have raised an alarm. I am deeply
grateful for your caution, and your trust in me, both of which
have been of the utmost service to me.”

“You may wonder, perhaps, that I did not tell my father,”
said Marcella; and even in the moonlight he could see the vivid
colour that dyed her face as the idea occurred to her that possibly
he thought her less maidenly, even if more self-reliant, than others,
would have been under the circumstances; “and if you had been
any other man, I would have done so.”

Any other man! Was it possible this girl of the Liberties,
whom he had never seen before, could recognise him P

“Ido not mean that I know who you are,” she said, appre-
hending his thought, and quick to correct the impression her
words had made, “but only that I know that you are good, by
your face. It was not that I wanted to be bold, but I thought I
could venture to take care of you myself; and that it would be
sure to be the safest course for you.”

“I understand you perfectly,” said the stranger, trying to
conceal the admiration aroused in him by the straight, proud
glance of her beautiful eyes, the graceful gesture with which she
threw out her hand, giving her words a kind of impassioned
emphasis, He would try not to distress her maidenly pride by
words or looks of masculine compliment. ‘You are a woman of
fine instincts as well as perfect courage,” he went on, wondering
at himself for speaking to this humble girl in the same language
he would have used to an equal. But in manner as well as appear-
ance, he reflected, she was far beyond her class.

Even in his own hour of difficulty, which was not over yet, he
could not help feeling curious to know something more of this
strange girl with her peculiar beauty, her mournful, steadfast
eyes and thrilling voice. How was her presence to be accounted
for in this abode of poverty, in this neighbourhood of wretched-
neas and viceP “Truly the Irish are a wonderful race,” he
thought, “when such creatures can spring up in the very cellars
of our cities.” He glanced around to impress the scene upon his
memory with a strong conviction that he would in the future look
back upon it with exceeding interest, the decaying old room with
its mouldy ceiling, rotting panels, and mysterious and friendly
closet, and the dark head and pale brows of the girl dimly seen in
the scanty moonlight, as she waited patiently till it was his pleasure
to follow her from the chamber, to allow her to finish the task she

Marcella Grace. 17

had undertaken for him by letting him noiselessly out of the house
and closing the door as silently behind him.

“ At all events, I shall never forget this kindness,” he said;
“and now if you will allow me to offer you something ——”

Emboldened by the certainty that one so wretchedly dressed
and living in such a house must be miserably poor, he attempted
to put money in her hand. But the girl shrank from the touch
of it, and quickly drew several steps further away from him. Poor
as she was and miserable as were her prospects, she would not take
money for this charity she had done. The man whom she had
sheltered and succoured, unknown as he was, had already become
her hero, her protegé, in some sort her child, by virtue of her
efforts for him. She would not have .her part in him blotted out
like a settled score.

“T cannot!” she said, eagerly, “I cannot! The poor are accus-
tomed to serve others without payment. I am glad to have been
of any little use to you. Do not spoil it all by paying for what
cannot be bought.”

“ You are a strange, unusual girl,” he said. “ Well, I cannot
distress my benefactress. You will not refuse, however—I trust you
will not refuse—to take some little token of my gratitude. This
ring is not very valuable,” he added, drawing one from his finger.
“I have nothing else to offer you at this moment. Yow will spoil
all if you deny me the pleasure of remembering afterwards that
you accepted it.”

She leaned forward, and looked with interest at the ring. Yes,
she would take this shining circlet as a memorial of this night,
which had given a living form and voice to the ideal of her dreams.

She held forth her hand for it with sudden eagerness, and he
dropped it in her palm.

“ May I put it on your finger ?”

She hesitated, and then held up her long, slim hand, while he
placed the ring on a finger too slender to hold it in safety long.

The next moment they had passed the threshold of the rotting
old chamber, and were descending the staircase in the dark, slowly
and carefully for fear of awaking the weaver.

As her hand was on the lock of the door, he said to her earnestly:
“It is possible that I may never see you again in this world; but
if so, remember, whatever may come to pass, that I repeat I have
not been in hiding here because of any criminal thing that I have
done.”

“Té£ I had not been sure of it, I should not have acted as J did,”

18 Marcella Grace.

said Marcella, firmly; and then the door opened and closed and
the stranger was gone.

Marcella listened anxiously in the hall for a few moments. It
‘was a safe hour, she hoped, for his return to his home wherever
that home might be, an hour when the late people have all gone
to rest at last, and the early people have not got up. With a
vehement prayer for his safety she went softly back to her own
room and lit her lamp and examined her ring, the only proof
remaining to her that this wonderful adventure was not entirely a
dream. It was a very old, slender hoop set with a few pearls; not
extremely valuable, as the donor had said, but priceless in the
eyes of its new owner. She threaded it on a string and hung it
round her neck; there let it remain for ever as an earnest of the
happy service she had done.

Then she took out her sewing and worked for an hour, and
thought again and again over every look and every accent of the
stranger. No fear that she had done wrong in admitting him
troubled her. As she had said to him, the poor are accustomed to
do service to each other, and, she might have added, they do not
always stop to think of the cost. To her mind it was the most
simple and rational thing in the world to harbour a fellow-creature ,
who was in trouble. The secrecy from her father had been justi-
fied by the exigencies of the case. The stranger had thought so,
and had thanked her for it.

“I am deeply grateful for your caution and your trust
in me,” he hed said, “and both have been of the utmost service
to me.”

Again and again she wondered what was the danger from
which she had saved him. What was it that he could not openly
face with that brave and piercing glance?

Six o’clock rang, and the people began to stir in the streets,
and Marcella put out her light, and put on her shabby old cloak,
and went out to Mass, picking her way through the dirty gutters
and seeing the day break over the squalor of the streets. This
early hour of the morning, when she could walk alone through a
sort of rarified atmosphere not of this earth, with her eyes on the
red dawnlight that just touched the chimneys at a certain street
corner as she passed, or on the silvery clouds that floated behind
the ugly roofs above her, was the only happy one she knew in the
twenty-four. It led her to the church where she was accustomed
to carry all her sorrows and temptations, leaving them at the foot
of the altar, and taking away in their place something that enabled

Marcella Grace. 19

her to get through her day, if not with the meekneas of a saint, at
least with the resignation of a Christian soul.

Here, in the dim shades of one of the poorest churches of the
people, she found the lamp of Faith ever burning, and the promises
of the Lord written all over the walls around her. Why should
she despair whom He had saved? Blessed are the meek for they
shall possess the land. Blessed are they that mourn for they shall
be comforted. She mourned, and she should be comforted. She
would try to be meek that she might arrive at her heavenly inheri-
tance. If life must be long and bleak, she would endeavour to "
travel it bravely, following all the way the Stations of the Cross
on her knees—as now.

As she moved from one dark corner of the church to another,
faring along that Dolorous Way, just able to see in the faint
dawn the figure in the great tragic drama, her eyes discerning
eagerly one form holding ever on its painful road and beckoning
her to come on, her heart grew wonderfully lighter, and she felt a
strong conviction that her future would not be made harder for
her than she could bear.

The church was crowded at that early hour with a multitude
of patient toilers and sufferers, delicate and ill-fed girls on their
way to a too-long day’s work, the hopeless repetition of which was
gradually killing them ; careworn mothers of families, with piteous
faces, praying passionately for help for the souls and bodies they
had in charge, withered and half-starved old men and women who
had crept from the wretched dens where they hid from the poor-
house to the feet of Christ in the dim dawn, unwilling to show
their faces in the fuller daylight. To these Marcella’s heart turned
from the happier and healthier faces which helped to fill the
church. The strong men and women who had come to get a bless-
ing on the tolerably prosperous work of their day had not the
same interest for her as had the wretched. And across her prayer
for all who were in trouble or danger came suddenly the sound of
the voice of the stranger she had succoured, and the anxious though
fearless expression of his eyes. Finishing her prayer with a hearty
supplication for his welfare she reluctantly left the House of Peace
and went home,

As she retraced her steps through mud and dirt now painfully
visible, the rainbows of the dawn had vanished from above the
roofs, and the leaden sky of wintry day looked sullenly down on
the city’s slums.

‘Well, what matter did it make, so long as the lights) on the

20 Scraps from Father Burke a Letters.

everlasting hills could be discerned beyond the roofs of this world
by the eyes of Faith. As she entered the gloomy door of her
home Marcella felt buoyed up with hope that she should in some
future day which she could not now see live a fuller, nobler,
and more useful life than she had known as yet, and that her
patience in the present moment might go far to prepare her for
that day.

‘With a brighter face than usual she prepared her father’s
breakfast. Presently he came in with a newspaper in his hand.

“Look here!” he cried. “The police were not wrong
about that bad job they were talkin’ about. There was a murder
done in the city last night—not half a dozen streets away
from us.”

“Murder!” echoed Marcella, turning whiter than the milk she
was pouring into his tea.

“There now, girl, ye needn’t look so frightened. Nobody can
say we harboured or hid the assassins, as they wanted to even to
us. Make haste and give me my breakfast, while I read the per-
ticulars. And mind, I'll want you to take some tabinet to Merrion-

square this mornin’.”

SCRAPS FROM FATHER BURKE'S LETTERS.

DEVOTED client of the illustrious Father Thomas Burke, 0.P., has
allowed us to look over the letters which she received from him

from time to time, and which she preserved with jealous care. Gene-
rally, they were little more than the briefest notes, fixing the time
when he could be seen in the confessional at St. Saviour’s or elsewhere;
for, in spite of his residence at Tallaght, his frequent absences as the
one charity sermon preacher of all Ireland, and the worse interrup-
tions of illness, many made strenuous efforts to have the great preacher
as their spiritual director. For they knew how thoroughly he gave
heed to St. Bernard’s warning to preachers; Concha esto, non canalis—
not a mere channel conveying the waters on to others, but a reser-
voir feeding the thirsty fields from its own overflow. He joined both
the Jucere and the ardere of that mellifluous Doctor—the brilliancy of
genius, and the ardour of the simplest piety. He realised, as I think
I have already remarked in former papers about Father: Burke—-he

Scraps from Father Burke's Letters. 21

realised the conseption of an apostolic preacher’s function put forward
by his own St. Thomas—contemplata traders. We shall not even
attempt to give these hurried and unstudied notes in order. The first
is dated from Corpo Santo, Lisbon, 17th Nov., '81 (or is it 80?)
We need not give the other dates :—

“ Although I have not written to you (nor indeed to anyone), I
have let no day pass without praying for my child. I hope you are
keeping up well. Remember you will be coming with your accounts
to me ina few days, for we are on the point of leaving Lisbon after a
pleasant sojourn of three weeks. We go back through Spain and
France, and I hope to be at home in a fortnight. With the exception
of a sharp attack of four days last week, my health has been wonder-
fully well, thank God. Try and keep to the meditation, and keep up
courage and confidence in God, whatever you do. I shall be so glad
to see you all again. (ood-bye, and may God bless you, my dear
child.”

sa

“Your letter has arrived, after taking its own time on the way.
It found me in bed, where I have to spend most of my time now ; and
I could not write sooner. I made a tremendous effort on Sunday to
get through forty minutes of a sermon for the orphans, and in conse-
quence I spent the afternoon and all yesterday in bed, and in very
great suffering, Your account of yourself did not surprise, as I made
allowance for the dissipation of travelling ; but, doing it leisurely as
you do, you ought to be far more faithful to your resolutions and
practices of devotion. Remember, my child, that habits of piety are
easily lost, and most difficult to regain; and I beg of you to havea
Letter account to give me when next you write. My health is getting
worse every day. I don’t fail to pray for you. Iam not able to do
anything else.”

sa

“T am glad you settled the question of choosing a confessor with-
out my interference, as I really could not advise you on that point
only, I am always of opinion that you ought to go to Holy Commu-
nion every second day as long as you are attending to your meditation
and prayers, and trying to be good. I was more than pleased, my
child, to find by your last letter that you are doing this, and I have
prayed, and shall continue to pray, that you may be faithful to the
resolutions formed with me. Try and make the meditation always in
the morning, and make a great point of getting through it so well as
to satisfy your conscience. Enjoy yourself by all means, but first do
this duty carefully. I hope you are enjoying yourself as well asa
Catholic can enjoy Rome just now. How is ‘the other Mary?’ My
health continues to improve, thank God, and we are having lovely

32 Scraps from Father Burke's Letters.

weather, like summer. Don’t forget to pray for me. I preached in
Dominick-street on New Year's Day. It didnothurt mea bit. Good-
bye to both of you. Take care of one another, and may God bless
you both.”

sí

“The pains are at me full swing, thanks be to God, and the'day
looks so threatening that I cannot gointo-day. Let us say to-morrow,
same hour.”

si:
“Tallaght, March 3015, 89.

“I have been silent too long, but I am up to my eyes in business
connected with the new church, and in constant, pain, so that I have
to spend more than half my time in bed. Your last letter gave me
great consolation, and I hope now that the last days of Holy Week in
the Eternal City will do you great good, as they assuredly will, if you
try to realise the mysteries of the Passion, remembering that you are
in the holiest spot of earth next to Jerusalem. What I want you and
‘the other Mary ’ to do, is to throw yourselves thoroughly and in a medi-
tative spirit into the devotions of the week. Don’t read any worldly
matter ; rise promptly (lazy rising is the cause of half the;tepidity of
the world) ; and don’t yield to the mere curiosity of listening to grand
music; but try to keep silence, and spend the days as if you were
present in Jerusalem when our Lord suffered. Think how the,Marys
of the Gospel spent the Holy Week.

“I hope you have tried to keep up to your daily meditation, and the
frequent Holy Communion. The Passion of our Lord used to be a
favourite subject with you. 1 beg you to try and get into it this
week, and lay up for yourself a store of thoughts and aspirations that
will be of use to you when you are far from Rome.

“There is nothing new here. I am going about, and trying to
get money: a difficult task, especially when you are in constant and
great pain. Pray for me, and tell the other Mary to do likewise.
God bless you both.”

s sos
“ Tallaght, Jan. 4tA, '83.

“I wasin bed from Chriatmas Eve to the following Friday, awfully
sick, On Friday I had to go north beyond Belfast, to preach on
Sunday ; and I did not return here till Tuesday night. The sickness
and the travelling put all correspondence out of my head, but I hope
I am not too late to wish you a whole lot of blessings for the New
Year. I came home much better than when I left, thank God.

“Now, my dear child, you will enjoy everything twice as much if
you are faithful to the meditation. It is a small thing, but it will
brace you up for the day if you do it in the morning—the proper

Taedet Me Vite. 28

time. Keep faithful. Don’t yield to the repugnance or lazy feel.
A thing is only worth what it costs, and God thinks twice as much of
the meditation which has cost us some sacrifice or self-denial.
“Ever thine,
“T, Bung, 0.P.”

TAEDET ME VIT&.
BY FRANCES KERSHAW.

HAT is the use of blooming,
O flowers, to pass away ?

What is the use of springing,

Ye trees, to slow decay ?

What is the use of shining,

O sun, from yonder sky ;

To see, in sad succession,

Men live, and love, and die?

What is the use of flowing,
O river, to the sea?

Its greedy depths have never
One word of thanks for thee!
What is the use of dreaming
Of peace and gentle rest,’
When all the world is weary,
And every heart oppressed P

What is the use of loving,
Through this life’s little day ?
Bo soon the chord is broken ;
Its music dies away!

Yet, grieve not, fretful spirit ;
From this rough sketch of his,
God paints a perfect picture,
To thy eternal bliss !

(24)

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN
BY JOHN FALLON.
Parr ITI.—Szviniez.
Tax Sevilians have a little couplet which everyone quotes :

“Quien no ha visto a Sevilla
No ha visto maravilla.”

It simply means that whosoever has not seen Seville has not seen
areal marvel. With this couplet firmly embedded in my mind, I
started out before seven o’clock this morning, determined in advance
to find it true.

My first pleasure was to receive letters from home at the
“ corréo” (post-office), where I found my name, with the prefix of
“Don,” written up amongst the list of personages for whom
letters were waiting. This list is kept renewed from day to day,
and a passport serves as a ready credential for delivery.

The “calle de las sierpes” (serpent-street), so gay last night,
was still asleep, with half its shutters closed. But, early as it was,
many a veiled lady all in black, just as at the papal receptions, and
escorted by her duenna, was wending her way with rapid steps
towards the cathedral : I followed, as a matter of course.

Passing through a narrow and tortuous lane, most scrupulously
clean, like everything at Seville, I observed men at open windows
working lathes of patriarchal simplicity : fancy a bow in one hand,
driven forwards and backwards, with the string coiled round the
ivory or wood: a chisel in the other hand, doing the work, and
doing it admirably. Such is the simple contrivance, probably a
legacy of the Moors.

This lane opens into the cathedral-square,and you soon find your-
self in face of the giant pile, with the stately Giralda doing
duty as a spire. Both are dove-coloured, and, so far, they har-
monise.

The Giralda (pronounced Hiralda), is a square tower built on a
narrow base of fifty feet each way. It was erected in the twelfth
century by the Moors, and its height then was two hundred and
fifty feet: on the top of it were four brass balls of which they
were very proud, though I cannot understand why. . O£ course

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 25

they used it as a minaret, and where the cathedral now stands was
their great Mosque.* In the following century St. Ferdinand
captured Seville, and mosque and “ minár” became Christian.
Then, in course of time, the minaret was raised another hundred
feet, with marvellous masonry, like lace-work of stone, and sur-
mounted by a statue of gilt bronze, which weighs twenty-five
hundred-weight, and revolves with the slightest breeze. Hence the
name : Giralda (weather-vane.)

While I looked and wondered, the chimes of this old tower
began to ring, reminding me strangely of “the harp in the air”
in Wallace’s charming opera:

“It hangs on the walls

Of the old Moorish halls,

Though none know its mirfetrel,

Or how it came there,”
The Giralda has great bells also, only rung on great solemnities, and
the fun is to ascend to the very top, on some such occasion, when
all the bells are ringing their very loudest, and to see the acrobatic
feats of the bell-ringers, perhaps unique in the world. This
I was fortunate to witness on the festival of Corpus Christi,
which the Sevilians claim as specially their own,t and celebrate
accordingly. But I must reserve an account of it to that day,

thugh I long sadly to tell you about it.

Coming as I came, you enter the precincts of the great cathe-
dral, on the side of the north transept, by the “ gate of pardon,” an
undestroyed relic of the great mosque, in the shape of a gigantic
Moorish arch, horse-shoed above, and inimitably rich. Youfind your-
self in the “court of oranges.” The lofty walls that hem in this space,
and shut out the sound of ordinary life as if by magic, make of this
enclosure an absolutely perfect cloister, truest sanctuary for thought
and recollection and forgiveness, and give a very special significance
to the name of the entrance: “the gate of pardon.” You have
passed at a step from the glare and bustle of a most lively city, intoa
place of stillness and grateful. shade, where your very foot-fall
comes back with an echo. In the centre is a fountain, and the
small silvery sound of its trickling water fills the air with music.

This fountain is classic, for it existed in the days of imperial
and even republican Rome, and the water that feeds it was brought

© And, before the days of the Moors, the Visigothe had their Oathedral here,
built on the site of a heathen temple of Roman, and even Phoenician, antiquity.

4 Because they sag that it was at their special ontreaty that the Holy See
established the festival apart from the Thursday in Holy Week,

26 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

by the legionaries of Cesar from the distant hill-sides of Guadaira.
At this fountain, some centuries after, one can picture the
Visigoth mothers holding out their young Rodericks and Alarics
to be christened, too many of them, alas! to grow up into rankest
Arianism. Then,{for long and stirring ages, the vision is of
grim or graceful warriors of the Crescent, performing their ablu-
tions here, while the muezzin chanted -his plaintive call to prayer
from the nearest “ minér.” And now, in this present year of grace
and joyous month of June, what do I behold? . . . Why,
simply, alot of broad-chested Andalusians, with classic features, and
sunny smiles on their honest faces, filling the daintiest little kegs
with the sparkling water, to deliver it for sale through the town,
loaded in panniers on their gigantic donkeys.

And this explains a mystery that puzzled me as I entered:
why a number of those magnificent silver-gray animals were
patiently standing outside the lofty wall, one behind another in
Indian file, each at least fourteen hands high, and caparisoned in
brown velvet and fringe of twine, as if to mount a duke.

Within the court of oranges, on each side of the fountain, you
might count about thirty orange-trees, growing in formal rows, with
still a few oranges: lingering on their branches, looking sadly
shrivelled at this advanced season. The inner entrance to the cathe-
dral is another perfectly preserved remnant of the great mosque,
horse-shoed, diapered, with alternately recessed and projecting
courses, and altogether Saracenic. And now imagine yourself cross-
ing this inner threshold: you pass from pleasing shade todim twilight,
or rather from twilight to darkness. But gradually the eyes get
accustomed to the deep gloom: it seems to recede bodily, like an evil
spirit, or a London fog : and then the glorious whole stands revealed.

At first, be it confessed, the momentary impression is delusive,
as in St. Peter's of Rome. The long aisles seem short, the lofty
vaults do not appear high, the very columns seem few in number :
but right soon do length and height come on you, right soon
does the vivid sense of them grow, as you wander about here.
Few as the columns seem, there are sixty of them, each like Nelson’s
pillar in height and thickness. Low as the vaults may look, they
are so lofty that even in the side aisles many another cathedral of
the first class might walk about beneath them, roof and all.

To put the matter in plain figures, the clear height of the
nave, above the pavement, is a hundred and forty-five feet; and,
as you approach the “ cimborio” (lantern), where nave and tran-
septs intersect, it is thirty feet more!

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 27

In fact, this is the church of which the designers said: “ Let
us build a cathedral so grand that no other shall ever compare
with it,” and a junior member of the chapter moved an amend-
ment: “Let us build a cathedral so grand that posterity will say
we were mad!” and that inspired amendment, like a recent
important resolution of Mr. Gladstone in the House of Commons,
was carried ‘“nem-con,” by acclamation.

It was better than carried: it was executed to the letter,
without cowardice, or faltering. Hence the Titanic dimensions,
which astonish the world to-day.

Seville Cathedral almost reminds one of that of Vienna:
because, although there is a clerestory of traceried lights near the
vaulting of the nave, itis so pinched up that it almost escapes
observation. In like manner the triforium merely looks like a
cornice from below. This is another way of saying that the long
double side-aisles are almost as lofty as the nave, and this leaves
the side-chapel windows of leviathan dimensions, immense in every
way. They are not traceried, but filled with stained-glass of the
sixteenth century, by Flemish artists of the best period, from
Italian cartoons of the best school, when Spain and Flanders, and all
Germany were practically one, and could command the genius of
Europe, and the wealth of the New World. Almost four centuries
have rolled away since those gorgeous windows were set up: time
has toned, but scarcely tarnished, their varied lustre—thanks to the
marvellous climate. It is in the tinted radiance which they shed,
full of richest prismatic colours, that the side altars stand, spaced
from pillar to pillar, encircling the great cathedral, and filling it
with soul, and warmth, and life.

I am not going to attempt a detailed description of those side-
chapels or altars, though each is a treasury of sculpture, and
precious metals, and of paintings by the deftest hands of the
Andalusian school, too little known to us. Each time I passed,
veiled ladies in black were still prostrate on the marble flags,
absorbed in deepest devotion. Let not French writers say that
the ladies of Seville are frivolous, fickle, light! they have not seen
them here, at earliest hours, pioneering the steep way to heaven,
for others to follow who dare.

One thing I could admire without disturbing them; the mar-
yellous lace-work of wrought iron, which separates, without in the
least concealing, those side-chapels from the aisles: even the smith-
work here is as artistic as it is colossal.

For the same reason I cannot venture on a detailed account

28 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

of the grand altar and choir, still of imperial magnificence, not-
withstanding French pillage. Each time I approached, lights
were burning and prayers were being offered up unoeasingly.

If I were to find one single fault with this glorious cathedral,
it would be in the non-removal of the choir-screen, rising like a
barricade of rare and richly sculptured marble from the pavement
to the very vaults, but obstructing a perspective which would, if
left clear, be like a vista of Heaven !

The clear span of the nave is a matter of international rivalry
amongst countries possessing great cathedrals, and each country
exaggerates its own. For this reason I took care to measure
the accurate width here more than once, from column to column,

“behind the plinths, not with a rule or tape, but simply with my feet,
of which I knew the linear value to a hair’s breadth : and I can
conscientiously fix the span at forty-three feet three-inches.
This does not place Seville Cathedral amongst the widest-naved of
Europe, but awards it the palm in this respect amongst the
highest-vaulted, and makes it nearly two feet wider than Cologne,
its mighty rival of the north.

Perhaps you will ask why did I not use a tape or rule? Because,
had I done so, I should perhaps have become an object of more
than suspicion. But, putting one foot before another, the proba-
bility is that I was scarcely observed; or, if observed, that I
was looked upon merely as an eccentric, and thus I accomplished
my object without giving offence.

And now it was my happy fate to hear one of the choir organs*
pealing out a quaint melody, in wailing tones, like an appeal to
heaven for mercy; and it ewelled till the long aisles and lofty
vaults became resonant and, as it were, shaken into fury, with
the mighty sound, and then it softened, and died away, in sweetest
“vox humana”... I can truly assure you the vibrations lingered
in the air, and came back, and back again, from the vast heights
and deep recesses of the building, in varied'cadence, with charming
echo, revealing all the huge dimensions of the vast fabric far more
effectually than tape, or rule, or foot of man could ever do...
Such is the cathedral of Seville : I visited it often, and often again,
but I can tell you no more: my poor words fail to describe it.

If you leave by the south transept, you pass out by another
Moorish arch, horse-shoed and diapered like its twin-sister on
the north side, and manifestly, like it, another surviving portion

“I believe there are four of them.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 29

of the old Moorish mosque. Here is no “court of oranges,” no
fountain fed by Roman aqueduct, no “ gate of pardon.” But the
air is curiously alive with hawks and pigeons intermized, all dove~
coloured like the masonry, living in peace and concord, a happy
family! They seem to never tire of flying round the giddy
pinnacles of the cathedral, and its flame-shaped battlements.
Probably, like the pigeons of St. Mark’s, they are here from timo
immemorial. To me they seemed all hawks; to others they seem
all pigeons. But the fact is established beyond question, they are
hawks and pigeons intermixed. ‘Truly, Seville is a town of
marvels !

I suppose I had spent hours in the cathedral; for, when I
sallied out, the red-sashed natives were already huving their
siesta on the marble flags that surround it, amidst the truncated
pillars that still proclaim the former boundaries of the mosque.

After a perfectly Spanish breakfast of salmoneta, tortilla, and
venison, I drove to the “ muséo” (picture-gallery), which is simply
a desecrated, or rather, de-consecrated church, retaining of course
all its ecclesiastical form, but with its altars and religious emblems
all gone, and its walls all hung with Zurbardéns, Murillos, and
other masters of the Sevilian school. But not a single Velasqués
is here: to find him you must go to Madrid.

I note that Murillo had three styles, as he advanced in years,
the “ frio,”.the “calido,” and the “ vaporoso” (cold, warm, and
steaming, just like the successive stages of a kettle that is boiling
for tea). And I have an impression, formed elsewhere, confirmed
here, that his middle period fixes the stage of his highest perfec-
tion, though many of his most world-renowned pictures are of the
““yaporoso ” type, including the grand “Conception” at the
Louvre.

Murillo is the true artistic glory of Seville, and in front of
the “ muséo” his statue justly stands. He looks for all the world
like Oliver Cromwell, in face and costume: and, be it remembered,
they were contemporaries, and lived at a time when England
borrowed much of its fashions, and even colloquial expressions
from Spain.

Strolling ,homewards, I could not fail being struck by the

very peculiar narrowness of the streets in this part of the town:

in many of them you could reach from side to side with your open

arms. The houses also have a built-up windowless appearance

along the basement storey, more like citadels or prisons than

Christian dwellings, T muspect many of them are of great ego,
Vou. xin, No. 139.

80 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

all clean as they look. It was siesta hour, and the streets were
almost absolutely deserted ; but, from many a grated opening above,
came down sounds of piano music, well played, and mostly
classical.

Reaching the broader streets, I found them canopied with
awning from side to side, the canvas being suspended from the
upper storeys. Most of the shop fronts were closed again, to
Keep out the heat: of those that were open I noticed that many
are not glazed, but simply rest on metal or marble pillars : all this,
I think, is Oriental. As for the heat in the full sunshine, it was
simply like an oven ; to face it further would have been madness.

In the evening we drove to the “ paséo,” to see the upper class
enjoying the cool air. The “paséo” runs by San Telmo, the
palace of the Montpensiers, where the late young Queen of Spain
spent her happy childhood. It also runs by the banks of the
famous Guadalquivir, favourite theme of Moorish legends. I was
quite struck by the smartness of the equipages: horses, vehicles,
servants all perfectly turned out. The ladies, without hats or
bonnets, looked to perfect advantage, with just a flower or two in
the hair, and a lappet of white or black lace. A small minority
wore tiny Parisian hats of straw: the contrast just served to
enhance the paramount grace of the national mantilla. The young
men were on horseback, and many a young gallant seemed ambi-
tious to make his steed prance and curvet with all the airs of
the haute école, an easy task with such mettlesome, well-trained
animals. The Andalusian horse is small and plump: he has a
perfect head, capital quarters, but appears rather short in front,
and rather drooping towards the tail. The colour is as varied as
with us: bay, brown, steel-gray, &c. The canter is particularly
airy, and high in front ; the trotting pace is very fast and showy ;
the walk is like a trot, and very peculiar to our Northern eyes.
Altogether the Andalusian horse is just the right thing for a
“paséo.” And think not that the ladies sit back in their carriages,
looking sulky or sad, or drive with the saddening regularity of-a
procession or funeral. Some are dashing past like fire-flies,
emiling and bowing as they go; others have pulled up and are
chatting: the delicious air enlivens all, and they show it even to
the tips of their fans.

As we pass San Telmo, let me tell you a story concerning the
late queen. When death was coming on her, and grandees were
inseribing their names at the palace of Madrid, a poor woman
came through the titled throng and said: “ I have no name worth

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 81

inscribing, but I want to know how Mercedes is, and I will call
again and again until I hear that Mercedes is better.” When the
end came, that poor woman was seen no more: vainly the young
king ordered all possible inquiries to find her out; her name
remains unknown. Still I venture a solution: the young queen
used to visit the poor and the sick; perhaps she met her death
illness in this way, perhaps not ; but probably the poor woman
who made those mysterious inquiries had a sick child, or husband,
whose pillow had been smoothed by the young fingers of royalty.
Hence the sympathy, which ignored formalities and etiquette, and
felt responsive only to the promptings of gratitude, for kindness
unrecorded except in heaven.

All the world has read of the Guadalquivir, as tí was, with its
banks lined, and in fact canopied, with evergreens and scent-laden
trees; such the enraptured Moors found it, and described it to
their friends, even in far-off Damascus: such their descendants
picture it still} and with imperishable faith pray to Allah for their
return to it once more. But plain truth compels me to tell you
that I found it brown and rushy, except where it is embanked with
masonry, with sea-going ships from London and the Levant moored
alongside. I believe the ebb and flow of the Atlantic tide is felt
here: so that practically Seville is a seaport town, although, to
look at the map, you would scarcely think so.

There is a charming tower by the river-side, dove-coloured,
octagonal, with flame-shaped battlements, surmounted by turrets,
one over another, of lessening diameter. This tower, evidently a
Moorish structure, is now called “the tower of gold,” not by
reason of its colour, but because the followers of Columbus often
landed here, laden with the golden spoil of America. You can
easily picture the light-hearted Moors in earlier days starting from
this same place on their boating excursions at sundown, “ venting
their exuberance of spirits in poetry and song.” The habit sur-
vives still; alongside are steps from which boating parties start as
of old, and, if you listen, you may hear couplet and guitar blend-
ing on the evening air. But the evergreens are gone for ever.

* * * .

Again an early start this morning for an excursion round the
town ; but, this time, in one of the small two-horse phaetons which
stand waiting in the square. It is surprising what a round one
has to take, when driving, to get from one objective point to
another: much as if, to get from Sackville-street to Nassau-
street, you had to drive round by the Four Courts and St: Patrick's

32 Notes of 4 Short Trip to Spain.

Cathedral : this gives you a practical idea how narrow the majority
of the streets are.

I went first to see “ the house of Pilate,” built, in the days of
Charles V., by an ancestor of the Sidonias, who had accomplished
a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. There is a popular delusion (amongst
tourists) that it is an exact facsimile of the Roman governor's
house, as the sixteenth century pilgrim found it! but the simple
fact is, that the open air stations of the cross start from here in
Holy Week : hence the name. It is to all intents a small Moorish

with wainscotting of azuleio tiles and walls covered with
elaborate stucco. Scattered through its courts and cloisters are
busts of white marble, of Roman emperors and consuls, brought
from Italica. By-the-way, what is, or rather was, Italica P Simply
a Roman colony, planted within half-a-dozen miles of here, more
than two thousand years ago, by Scipio Africanus, to make a home
for his worn-out legionaries. It gave birth to Trajan, and some
say it gave birth to Hadrian and Theodosius; and then, after a
certain number of centuries, it simply ceased to exist as a city, not
through any volcanic eruption or convulsion of nature, but for the
simplest reason imaginable. The Guadalquivir, which had been
flowing by its walls just as it flows here, changed its course one
fine morning, and left it dry ; and so its inhabitants had to migrate
en masse. Seville was their nearest refuge: they fled here;
and their temples and theatres became the legitimate quarry of
this fair town, because esthetic archseology was not then in vogue.
In fact it is more than probable that the nice little marble shafts,
which we admire in the shop-fronts here, came from Italica, and
re-echoed to the Latin lisping of the boy emperors who were
reared there. . :

I passed quite a number of churches, and visited a few, so
antique-looking that I verily believe they were mosques in the
Moorish days. On leaving (never on entering) an odd mendicant
woman may ask you for alms in a placid, dignified sort of way,
holding out her hand, and saying: “Por V’amor de Dios;” to
refuse her, you have only to say: “perdon’ uste, hermana”
(forgive me, sister), and your sister in Adam will not say another
word. I mention this, because an impression prevails that Spanish
beggars are importunate: the truth is quite the reverse.

Next I found myself at the tobacco factory—a government
establishment, which employs five thousand people, and where
cigars and cigarettes are made in millions and billions each year.
Five hundred women and girls work upstairs, the women at cigars,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 33

the girls at cigarettes ;—and what a din! You are shown through
by a matron; the corridors, where the work proceeds, are each
long enongh for a rifle range, and arched with solid masonry, all
scrupulously whitewashed. The tables are arranged crose-ways
with mathematical regularity, and the perspective from end to end
is quite a study. Seated at those tables the cigarreras work, four
at each side, the fragrant weed piled in heaps before them. They
are paid ‘according to the number of cigars they produce, and
therefore are at liberty to chat and laugh, and to idle if they please.
Some are having their frugal repast of stewed tomatoes ; some are
eleeping soundly, notwithstanding the tremendous discord of voices
all chattering simultaneously. Some of the cigarreras are mothers
of families, and their infants are slung in extemporised hammocks
made of their shawls, or stowed away in baskets or boxes on or
under the tables, Strange to say, those infants do not look un-
healthy or restless, notwithstanding the pungent atmosphere and
the clatter of so many babbling tongues ; but even here they sleep
the sleep of angels. It is the general opinion that the cigarreras
of Seville represent a class in themselves, though they vary much
in type. Like students at a German university, they have certain
fashions, which to them are law. One particular fashion is to
arrive early in the morning, scrupulously well dressed, with hair
glistening like a raven’s wing, and a fresh crimson or white
carnation flower tastefully adorning it; then to hang the walking
costume on the wall (which is all fitted with crooks for the purpose),
and to sit in demi-toilette, working or idling, but always chattering,
till the sun gets low and the hour arrives for an evening walk.
Similar corridors, similarly arched and whitewashed, and simi-
larly endless, contain the cigarreras of the junior grade, where
cigarettes are made instead of cigars. Here the hair-dressing has
evidently been equally attended to, and the din is, if possible,
more deafening. You may perhaps think I am exaggerating in
saying so much of the hair-dressing: so let me add that, this
morning, in a little square by the roadside, I saw two poor, elderly
women, water-sellers (whose emoluments perhaps reached two-
pence halfpenny a day), with their earthen pitchers laid down:
one was acting as hairdresser to the other, the latter sitting on
the ground, obviously on the principle of fair trade and reciprocity,
and yet the coiffure of the standing figure was already fit for a
queen! But to end with the cigarreras : although I fail to recognise
any fixity of type, it seems to me that there is much of the Moor
(and probably more of the tigress, if roused) in those richly’ sun-

84 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

burnt Andalusian faces, and that the softened glance of the Murillo
madonnas must be sought elsewhere. Here it was that Prosper
Mérimée found the real “Carmen,” and the charming music of
Bizet really incorporates many of the roulades that one hear at
every moment in the streets of this most musical city.

And now, as the forenoon advances, the fierce glare of the sun
becomes all too hot for further defiance. You seek the welcome
shades of the hotel, and there, as you sit, musing perhaps, or
dozing, more probably, you hear from moment to moment the
tinkling of bells. You look out from beneath the sun-shades, and
you see files of those superb gray donkeys, which we found
yesterday outside the court of oranges. They are delivering water,
or bringing charcoal from the mountain-sides, or bread from the
baking village, and they are caparisoned and fringed just as I
described them. But, in addition, they are carefully muzzled with
basket or network! Is it that they are disposed to biteP No;
but, like you or me, they are fond of the purple figs and blood-red.
oranges which Seville produces to such perfection, and which
Sevilian fruitsellers display at every other corner. Silent but
wise, their minds are ever bent on the luscious fruit, and to prevent
them from making a raid on it, the muzzles are deemed indispens-
able. Thus they trudge along, in Indian file, justas they are
accustomed to stand, and the only way the streets permit, and all
the while their owners are shouting their wares, in baritone voices
that would make the fortune of a theatre. Those men are peasants,
and their appearance is picturesque: a wide sombrero hat; face
closely shaved, without whiskers or moustache ; hair closely cut ;
short jacket; red sash round the waist, and buff gaiters. Such
are the men who drive the donkeys of Seville, delivering charcoal,
or bread, or water, from door to door.

From door to door? Let us say rather from one open-work
gate of wrought iron to another, each of them a study of art,
and most of them gilt: such is the graceful fashion here. For,
let me tell you, Sevilian houses are built in the form of a hollow
square ; the small quadrangle thus enclosed is planted with shrubs
flowering and aromatic, and generally has a fountain in the middle.
The living rooms face it, and during the warm months each family
migrates to the ground floor, and transfers to it their principal
furniture, musical instruments, pictures, &c. Thus each little square
becomes a centre and focus of family life: this is the famous
“patio ” (pronounced patti-o), which forms the chief characteristic
of Sevilian domestic existence—a characteristic not jealously ‘bar-

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 35.

ricaded from the public gaze, but simply fenced against the
unconscious intrusion of dogs, donkeys, &c., by the lacework of
iron to which I have referred. Externally, Sevilian houses are
all neatness, being kept constantly limewashed in tints of palest
lavender, or cream-colour, or pink: this gives them all a modern
look, though many of them, I suspect, date from the middle
ages. A proof of their age, to a trained eye, is that you have to
descend three or four steps into each of them, and this proof is all
the more cogent from the fact that the Sevilians have a praise-
worthy habit, universal and apparently inherited, of removing all
their dust rubbish every morning to allocated places outside the
city walls. To finish about Sevilian houses, I should tell you that
the roofs are covered with tiles of palest brown or fawn colour,
set in downward lines, like corduroy, and that at the corners are
gargoyles, representing heads of animals, just such as we are
accustomed to associate with Gothic architecture, but which were
quite familiar and usual in Roman villas of the classic days, like
much of the “patio” arrangement which I have attempted to
describe.

This evening, with my young Cambridge friend, I went to
hear a gipsy concert in the ‘calle de l’amor de Dios.” Here
Gitanos and Gitanas sang, one after another, dreary airs in long
wailing minor keys, and, while eack was singing, the others kept
clapping hands to the time, and one, a miserable little hunchbacked
man, kept jingling accompaniments on a guitar. Infer from this
that the performance did not strike me as either artistic or delight-
ful. How different from the magnificent flow of almost impromptu
stringed Tzigane music, which has astonished and delighted the
most cultivated ears, from Jassy to Paris! The songs which the
gipsies of Seville sing must be in Andalusian patois, because the
audience seemed to follow them with keen delight. Sometimes a
Gitano would stop in the middle of his song, and begin a long and
animated recitative, getting more and more excited, and at last
draw a sword-cane, and flourish it, and then run his imaginary foe
through, and after the plaudits would subside finish his song in a
wild roulade. Neither Gitanos nor Gitanas made the slightest
attempt at costume, but were just arrayed as ordinary Andalusians
of the middle class; but there was something in their serpent-like
stare that did not enlist confidence. The audience, excepting
ourselves, were all of the middle class, or lower, seated in threes
and fours at little tables, smoking cigarettes and drinking Manza-
nella sherry! I soon came to see that we were rather gazed at,

36 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

and was glad to get myself back into the open streets, with pockets
and watch untouched,

To walk the streets in the cool evening air isan endless delight
and study: I note that Sevilians, men and women, the latter
especially, are wisely addicted to milk drinking: this is the result
of the climate. ' But it is not all cow’s milk that is taken, as you
might perhaps think: goat’s milk and ass’s milk are equally
patronised. Everywhere you go, you see the sign-boards: “leche
de vaca”... “leche de cabra” .. . “leche de burra” (cow’s
milk, goat’s milk, ass’s milk), and you see the small black cows
and the gigantic brown goats led about from street to street.

Another favourite refreshment is iced cream, the ice made of
compressed snow from the Sierra Morena; this is taken in the
“‘neverias,” handsomely fitted rooms, open as much as possible to
the cooling air, and crowded with respectable people, sipping the
frigid mixture and chatting all the while. The fun is to go from
“neveria” to “ neveria,” and have an ice at each.

* . * *

This, my third morning at Seville, I had laid out for a drive
to Italica, and round the walls of Seville, which are of every age,
from modern times to the days of the Moors, Goths, and Romans,
and perhaps long before them. But the fierce heat interposed a
positive veto. You do not care to explore ruins, when the day
begins at ninety degrees in the coolest shade, and very much higher
in the sunshine. So we just sent to engage select seats for the
great bull-fight next Thursday, and started for Grandda, to spend
the interim in that paradise. And now let me wish you a Spanish
good-bye: “ Vaya uste con Dios” . . . Go with God.

(8)

LONDONDERRY BELLS.
BY JOHN KANE.

{OW sreetiy rang the belle when we chased the honey bee,
And loudly sang the lark to you, love, and to me,
‘When winds of sunny April whispered wooingly :

Sing, merry !
‘When childhood heard the bells of Londonderry.

How softly rang the bells when we clomb the misty hill,

‘When we reached the pebbled cradle of the foamy mountain-rill,
And pledged our love at noontide when every bird was still;

. Bing, merry t

So clearly rang the bells of Londonderry.

And sprightly was the dancing beneath the flowered thorn,

When the little eastarn moonlight, like Plenty’s golden horn,

Lit our way from stile to stile through the fields of whispering corn,
Sing, merry!

So gaily rang the bells of Londonderry.

But now the mountain flowers have lost their rich perfume,
And the lark bas now no rapture, the nodding rose no bloom,
Since they took you from the ocean to lay you in the tomb.

‘Never merry
Shall sound for me sweet bells of Londonderry.

But merrily they'll sound when my heart has passed uway,
To the fisher near his nets, and the hillmen mowing hay,
To mothers at their doorsteps, and lovers in the May,

Making merry,
Shall chime the silver bells of Londonderry.

GLEANINGS FROM THOMAS Á EEMPIS.

8 yet too few of the works of Thomas a Kempis, the holy
monk of Windesheim and gifted exponent of its spiritual
school, have appeared in English; therefore I propose to offer,
from time to time, to the readers of the “Inisq MontHty,”
selected translations from his voluminous writings.

I shall make no comment on these rare geme—they speak for
themselves. I only wish my translation could equal the original.

The first piece which I have chosen is the little essay “ de vita
bona et pacifica.”

This meditation, so brief and yet so full, well suited for the
daily use of those whose leisure is scanty, appears in the author’s
manuscript, dated A.p. 1441, now preserved in the Burgoyne
Library at Brussels (Nos. 5855-5861). It will also be found in
print, near the end of the 2nd Vol. of a Kempis’s complete
works, edited by Henricus Sommalius, 8.J., a.p. 1615.

F.R.C.

Of a good peaceful life.

I. If thou dost wish to live worthily in the sight of God, thou
shouldst give thyself up entirely to Him.

Set thy heart upon doing what is thy duty, and thou shalt
enjoy peace in all things.

Put it before thee to bear the heavier trials, and then thou wilt
more easily endure the lighter.

Learn to overcome thyself in all things, and thou shalt have
interior rest.

Say to thyself—What I ought to do is what I will do; and
thus I shall gain heaven.

With patience and silence comes an increase of peace. The
wise man is truly patient.

If I am to conquer myself in all things, then I must begin by
mortifying myself. Above all, mortification is good and necessary
for me.

Although I should possess this thing, or the other thing, still
I would not be satisfied.

Dismiss from thy heart all likings and dislikes, and then
nothing will disturb thee

Gleanings from Thomas a Kempis. 39

If thou dost not give thyself overmuch to exterior matters,
thou shalt enjoy inward rest.

Be not solicitous for the goods of this world, lest thou forfeit
the eternal blessings i in heaven promised by Jesus Christ to
those who are in his friendship.

All knowledge, all possessions avail nothing, unless by our
prayers we win God’s favour.

He who contemns all that gives delight on earth, can lift up
his heart to heaven, and feel some portion of its celestial joys.

II. Alas! how comes it that we so strongly desire to be well
thought of P Yet, for all that, we are nothing, howsoever differ-
ently we ourselves may think.

‘Why complain greatly about this, and wander hither and
thither P

Wheresoever thou goest or comest thou shalt not find all
smooth, because everywhere there is something to be borne with.

And if thou knowest not how to rejoice thereat, at all events
it behoves thee to endure it now, and to dispose thyself for peace
in the end, vanquishing all by patience.

Nought avails unless thou ceasest to seek thyself in anything.

As long as thou livest here thou must struggle against thyself,
and combat the enemy.

In this will thy merit be enhanced, if, for the sake of God,
thou bearest up against all that troubles thee.

III. He who flies from suffering only courts it. This life is
full of wants and worries.

Although thou wouldst willingly crave freedom from all trials,
still such would not be profitable for thee: therefore endure
patiently if thou desirest to please God, and to do that which is
very meritorious in his sight.

Everything will turn to profit if thou dost accept all trials from
God, as a gain to thy soul.

The straight road to heaven is to suffer for our Lord.

Humble endurance is the mark of a virtuous life, and of
heavenly wisdom, and leads to the eternal joys of paradise ; which
may the loving Jesus grant us, by the merits of his most holy
death, and the intercession of his most precious Mother, the
Blessed Mary ever Virgin; Jesus, who with the Father and the
Holy Ghost, liveth and reigneth God for ever and ever. Amen.

(40)

HOME-LIFE IN COLORADO.
BY BRENDAN MAC CARTHY.

F the realities of Colorado life be unknown at New York, for which
meridian the following article was written, how much more so
here at home! Our own special interest, however, was drawn to
this paper by the circumstances that it is the first that we have
seen from the pen of the youngest son of our Irish poet, the late
Denis Florence Mac Oarthy, who since Good Friday, 1882, has only
been represented in these pages by the initials 8. M.8. Many of
our readers will have no difficulty in supplying the remaining five
letters that make up the name of the Irish barrister Mr. D——
who is spoken of towards the end. This is another of the reasons
why, in no dearth of matter of our own—certainly not !—we for
once borrow from The Catholic World.
* * * .

'To those whose ideas of life west of the Missouri River are
chiefly derived from the performances of Mr. Buffalo Bill, or the
thrilling Western drama, in which the six-shooter and the coroner
take the leading parte, a short sketch of Western home-life may
be useful by way of antidote.

The ranch of my friend Mr. Sutcliffe is situated some ten miles
from the county-town of Castleton, in Colorado, and is a good
example of all that a Western home might be. Castleton is a
town of some fifty wooden houses, amongst which are a court-
house, school, newspaper-office, and four or five saloons. The popu-
lation is chiefly engaged in farming land in the vicinity of the
town. The predominant standing of the gentlemen is that of
judge, owing to the fact that they are supposed to have occupied
that responsible position “back East” before they came to Castle-
ton. There is, indeed, one admiral there, strangely placed so far
inland—but this is accounted for by the fact that he came there a
retired first lieutenant, and has received his promotion since at the
hand of the settlers.

Leaving Castleton, the track to the ranch of Mr. Sutcliffe
winds amongst the hills, gradually ascending until it suddenly
emerges on the brow of the “Divide.” Here a magnificent pano-
rama is spread before the eyes of the traveller. In front is a
verdant, undulating valley of great extent, intersected at intervals

Home-Life in Colorado, 41

by little streamlets or creeks, which take their rise in the foot-hills
beyond, their course marked by the thick growth of pines and
cotton-woods, and an occasional gleam of silver where the sun
lights up the rapid water. At one end of the unbroken chain of
foot-hills Pike’s Peak rears his venerable head, silvered with frost,
and far to the right of the landscape Long’s Peak, shaped like a
gigantic pyramid, towers in mowy magnificence.

Nestling in the valley is the house of my friend. It is a good-
sized frame-house, of which the architect and builder, a local genius,
known in these parte as “ old man Grant,” has every reason to be
proud. In front of the house stands that most useful invention,
the windmill, by which the breezes are constrained to pay toll in
kind and keep up the supply of fresh, pure well-water ; and a little
to the right of the house is the wood-pile, where the hungry tramp
must labour for a time before his wants are attended to.

Mr. Sutcliffe is an Englishman, and twenty-five years’ residence
in Colorado appears only to have brought out more strikingly the
national characteristics. He is a stout, hearty man of about forty,
on whose face a life of incessant work has left the stamp of honesty
and keenness. He comes of a good old farming stock in Derby-
shire, where his family have farmed the land time out of mind. *
Mra. Sutcliffe is also English, and a glance round the house will
make it clear that here comfort and cleanliness reign supreme.
The parlour, on the right of the entrance, is a large room, well
lighted with three windows. There is a large, open fireplace, and
on winter's nights, when the red curtains are drawn close, and the
pitch-pine fire roars up the chimney, you may sit in warm slippers
before the cheerful blaze, and have only an increased feeling of
comfort from the thought that Jack Frost is equeezing the meroury
into the bulb of the thermometer outside or screaming enviously
round the corners of the house. At the back is a cosy little room,
devoted to the ladies of the family. Here, amongst other things,
are a piano and a sewing-machine, and in the long evenings work
and music go merrily together. The hall is adorned with a
magnificent pair of antlers, a trophy from one of Mr. Sutcliffe’s
hunting expeditions. Upstairs are the bedrooms, where the spot-
lees linen and shining furniture invite repose. Such a house
as this is not a very common thing to meet with amonget the
settlers in the West; and it is easy to see that it is appreciated,
when in the summer-time the stream of tourists begins to pour along
the Pueblo-road, from the number that seek for a night’s lodging
here, and the earnestness with which they pray to be admitted:

42 Home-Life in Colorado.

The family consists of a boy and three girls, all of whom take
their share of the house duties. The girls, amongst other cares,
milk some twenty head of cows twice a day, churn the milk, make
the butter, assist in the cooking, and attend to the welfare of the
poultry and calves. The boy helps his father with the farm work,
collects the milch cows, and is always in readiness to ride anywhere
at his father’s commands on his fleet-footed pony. Work is never
slack on such a farm. In the winter’s mornings, when there are
sun-dogs at dawn, and the air glitters with minute particles of
frost, and the mercury stands far down below zero, Mr. Sutcliffe
will draw on his warmest coat, and mounted on his favourite mare,
her shoes well sharpened, will sally out on a tour of inspection.
Every beast, down to the latest arrival, he knows, and his practised
eye can discern at a glance exactly how each is bearing the cold
weather.

Expeditions in search of beef-steers to be fed and kept fat until
the price of beef in the Denver market rises are made in the
winter time. A snow-storm may come on, on the evening of the
expected return. Then the resources of the larder are taxed to
the uttermost, and the table, covered with a snowy cloth, groans
under a surprising display of good fare. The heaped-up logs roar
and crackle in the wide fireplace, and a welcome change of
garments hangs toasting in readiness. Suddenly the watchful eye
of Mrs. Sutcliffe discovers a dark patch moving towards the house
through the curtain of snow, and a distant bellow announces the
approach of the wanderers. Then there is a hurrying to and fro,
and the girls run out to open the corral-gate and take charge of
the tired horses, so that father and brother may get the sooner
to the welcome warmth of the house. Never does house look
more cosy or food more enticing than to the tired ones on such
occasions.

But when the snows have melted, and the silence of winter
gives place to the hum of returning spring, then comes the farmer's
busy season. The crops have to be put in, and stock branded up
and turned out on Uncle Sam’s big property, still requiring con-
tinual attention.

The change from winter to spring in Colorado is very strange
in its completeness. In winter the grass is dried up and yellow
after the summer's heat, the ground is hard with frost, and not a
sound breaks the icy stillness except the occasional howling of a
wolf or the chattering of a magpie. But when the winter breaks
the soft, green grass springs up as if by magic, the air is filled

Home-Life in Colorado. 43

with the voices of countless birds of gay plumage, and the ground
is covered with a wealth of wild flowers unequalled in any
country.

Summer and harvest-time follow quickly on one another in
Colorado, and not many weeks elapse from the appearance of the
tiny spears of rye above the ground before the “ waves of shadow ”
chase.each other across the golden fields, and the crop is ready for
harvesting.

All times are busy with the settler’s wife. But during the
haymaking, and when the threshing and the harvesting begin, then
she must be well endowed with those qualities which Dr. Robert
Collier sums up under the title of “clear grit,” to bear the strain
which is laid upon her. Breakfast takes place by lamplight,
dinner in the fields at noon, and at sundown the men return with
the neighbours who have been lending a helping hand—some ten
or twelve, perhaps—hungry, tired, and dusty, to have their wants
supplied. To each must be given a cheerful word of welcome, and
for each a plentiful meal must be prepared.

Farmers in Colorado are to be congratulated that the seasons
there are not so fickle as elsewhere ; and if they be blessed with as
happy a temperament as my friend Mr. Sutcliffe, and with such an
untiring helpmate as he has got, I can safely predict their home-
life in Colorado will be healthful and happy.

An example of a Colorado house of a different kind is the next
ranch up the creek. It is a genuine old-style log cabin. The
owner, Mr. D—, was an Irish barrister, but ill health would not
allow him to continue his work in the old country. The ground-
floor is divided into parlour and kitchen. The parlour is a square
room, supplied with a couple of windows and a door, so constructed
as to let the breezes wander at their own sweet will through the
house. The chief ornaments on the whitewashed walls are a
collection of guns and rifles. There is, in fact, nothing to suggest
the barrister in this room. At the top of a steep staircase, however,
is an ingeniously-contrived den, which presents a somewhat
different aspect. Here a table strewed with writing materials, a
well-filled bookcase, an easy-chair, and a reading-lamp hold
possession. Ranch affairs do not penetrate into this sanctum.
Calculations as to the price of beef and arrangements for the
slaughter of the fattened hogs are rigidly excluded from this
Colorado Parnassus, where such topics might be uncongenial to
the distinguished company always present. For ranged against
the walls are Homer, Horace, Shakespeare, and a number of sages

. 44 Home-Life in Colorado.

and philosophers whom it is rare to encounter on a ranch in the
West. In their company Mr. D—— may sit and soon forget
that he is not in some cosy nook of the temple, within easy
reach of Simpson’s.

“ Baching” in Colorado has its disadvantages as well as its
charms, and as dinner-hour approaches visions of Simpson’s may
rise for a moment when the old steer which has been slaughtered
for home-consumption proves a trifle tough; but a day’s work
irrigating, putting up fence, or driving cattle sharpens a man’s
appetite wonderfully, and the food, if not dainty, is plentiful and
the cooking good. “James,” a Sligo lad who takes the place of
the “ neat-handed Phillis” in this bachelor’s establishment, is an
excellent cook and always in the best of spirits, but the busy
woman's hand is missed, and shirt-buttons are at a premium. The
situation of the little house is one of the most beautiful in the
neighbourhood. It is close to the foot-hills, which rise behind it,
clad to the summit with pine-trees. Two of the hills directly
behind the house bear an odd resemblance to old Sugarloaf and
Corragoona, in the county Wicklow. The main product of the
ranch is hay, and when the meadow is standing, and the sunflowers
and wild flowers of every hue peep out through the long, waving
grass, a prettier spot could not well be imagined.

For occupation, the buying and feeding of cattle in winter and
the getting-in of the hay crop in summer furnish plenty. Then
Mr. D—— has opened a “ law office” in Castleton—more, I
suspect, as an excuse for a day or two of quiet study in the week
than from any hope of a lucrative practice. The county judge
is by profession a house-painter. His knowledge of law he
eequires in court. Legal training is considered rather an impedi-
ment to a man obtaining the office of county judge, on the ground,
presumably, that such training might bias him when deciding on
law points.

Farm-life does not present very many striking novelties, but
the time passes with wonderful rapidity and a store of health is
quickly laid in.

(4)

PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS.

Tue best passages of a poem, says Southey, are those which have
been felicitously produced in the first glow of composition; but I have
found in my own experience that those which have been inserted in
place of something faulty have been next to them in merit.

* . *

It has been calculated, it seems—we know not hy whom or on what
data—that every pound of honey represents two millions and a half
of clover tubes sucked by bees. Every page of good poetry, or even of
good prose represents the essence of many an hour of thought and
feeling.

* . .

The description in the next pigeonhole is so picturesque that it
deserves to be rescued from the ephemeral columns of the Weekly
Register and enshrined in our own immortal pages. The incident
ooourred about the end of last September.

“Two curious consequences of the long-continued dry and sunny
weather have been noticed by sojourners among Erin’s greenest nooks,
viz., the abundance of mushrooms, tons of which have left the country
every week (even after all the country housekeepers have made their
ketchup), and the many fires that have broken out over the furze-
covered mountains and hills, adding another picturesque effect to
twilight or moonlight scenes. On Monday afternoon the dwellers on
exquisite Killiney Hill, above the curving shores of Dublin Bay, were
atartled to see the great granite crags crowning the wooded hill
wrapped in a sheet of scarlet fame. The fire began on the side of a
private road, as if the spark from a pipe had caught the dry grass
scorched white by the sun, and in a few minutes the flames had leaped
to the top branches of a young tree, and darted up the face of the
crags, devouring furze, brambles, dry leaves and grass, and hiding the
green foliage of the trees under a fountain of fire. Soon various
streams of flame ran round the hill, destroying all before it, and
blackening the stripped rocks, and later in the evening the fire had
curled its way through the beautiful young pine-wood sloping towards
Dalkey, making a weird effect as it hissed and crackled among the
resinous trees, sending up a lurid glare and clouds of silver smoke into
the sky. For some time two or three gentlemen’s houses, separated
only by the narrow road and their own plantations from the burning
wood, seemed to be in imminent danger; and it wasa curious sight to
see the assemblage of people on the road—policemen in their helmets,
maid-servants in their white caps, labourers with spades and axes,

You. xm., No. 189. 5

46 Pigeonhole Paragraphs.

carts with water-barrels, for the only water-engine attainable had to
be hastily constructed out of a barrel and a garden hose. All were
doing their best to accomplish the impossible, to check the course of
the beautiful mischief-maker, that flew sparkling and circling away
into the distance as if laughing at their puny efforts. As night came
on, and the red glare in the sky deepened, the moon came out low
down on the silvering sea, and looked over at the fiery crown of the
hill, completing the picture. On Tuesday the fire was still burning
fiercely, but when the wind fell towards evening it gradually became
extinct.”
* * *

One of the funniest words that ever came to us from that land of
funny words, Yankeedom, is “salutatorian.” Its meaning will be
guessed from this American account of some school exhibition. “ Little
‘Miss Mitchell was salutatorian and in a neat and appropriate address
bade all a very hearty welcome.”

* * .

We have only once enshrined verse in these pigeonholes. Let us
make a second exception in favour of this—* The Two Streams '—by
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Behold the rocky wall
That down its eloping sides

Pours the swift rain-drops, blending as they fall
In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebble’s edge,

Is Athabasca, rolling towards the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

‘The slender rill had strayed.
But for the slanting stone,

To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will

Life’s parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,

Each widening torrent bende—

From the same cradle’s side,
From the same mother’s knee—
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,

One to the Peaceful Sea !
* * *

Pigeonhole Paragraphs. * 47

Swinburne, in his latest volume, levels against such biographical
scavengers as Froude this notable couplet :—
“ Strip the stark-naked soul, that all may peer—
Spy, smirk, sniff, snort, snap, snivel, snarl, and sneer.”
. . .
The following hexameter fixes the dates of the Quatuor Tempora
which we oddly translate by “ Quarter Tense ” : —

“ Post Luciam, cineres, post sanctum pneuma, crucemque.

As the ecclesiastical year begins with Advent, precedence is given
to the Quarter Tense which follows the feast of St. Lucy, December
13th; the next is after Ash Wednesday; the next after Pentecost,
represented here by the Greek word for “Spirit” which gives Pneu-
matics to the English language; and finally the Quarter Yense which
succeeds the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, September
14th. May this mnemonic be diluted into this couplet ?—
“ Et. Lucy’s day, Ash Wednesday, then Whitsuntide, and last
The Exaltation of the Cross, precede the three-day fast.”
. * .

Ina letter to the Author of the “ Monks of Kilcrea”—one of the
most delightful poems in the English language, which we must soon
find an opportunity of bringing under the notice of our readers—
Mr. Brinley Richards, the eminent composer and pianist, gives the
following estimate of the Irish music in “The Poets and Poetry of
Munster,” of which Messrs. Duffy of Wellington-quay are issuing a
new edition. Praise from such a Masstro of the “divine art” is.
indeed most valuable : .

“25 Br, Many Axsorr’s TRRRAOE, Kexsixotox, W.,
October 14th, 1884.

* Dean Ma. Geocuraan,

“With this I return you the little volume you kindly lent me,
and it has very greatly interested me. I have copied some of the
melodies as specimens of ‘ National Music,’ remarkable for individuality
and tenderness. According to modern ideas they seem ‘wild,’ and
refuse all attempts at accompaniment: indeed the music does not
appear to require any, and though at first they appear strange to
English ears, they seem to grow into a beauty peculiarly ‘ winning,’
and possess an eloquence that requires nothing more than the simple
notes of the melodies. We have no Welsh airs so characteristic, with
the exception of one or two old songs that seem to have been ‘ built’
on a scale entirely different from the modern diatonic. I am very
much obliged to you for adding ‘ something more’ to my collection of
National music,

“With kind regards, very truly yours,

“ Brintey Ricuaros.”

NOTES ON NEW BOOKS.

In honour of Christmastide and the Divine Child we put aside for
a moment larger and graver tomes and give precedence to some
books that the young folk will like to get for Christmas presents.
Of this class the most attractive put forward by Messrs. M. H.
Gill & Son were named hurriedly to our readers last month.

There is no fear that the other book mentioned at the end of our
last number will be lost in the ordinary crowd of juvenile literature.
A clever person remarked to us lately, that the best writing of the
day is done for children; witness Mrs. Molesworth and Lewis
Carroll, and, just this Christmas, Mrs. Augusta Webster, the
greatest, probably of women-poets, at least living, has given
“Daffodil” to the fanciful literature of childhood. Fully worthy
of being named with these efforts of real genius is “The Walking
Trees,” which is a wonderful exploit of artistic imagination, and
will rank higher than “The Little Flower Seekers” or any other
of Miss Mulholland’s contributions to this department of litera-
ture. We must return to the study of this exquisite tale, over-
flowing with poetic thought; but, as we have to mention many
other booke, we shall now add only that Mr. W. C. Mills, a Dublin
artist, has illustrated the story very gracefully. Though the
opening story has absorbed all our attention, younger readers will
relish even more the other tales which make up this very pretty
and very cheap volume. “Little Queen Pet and her Kingdom”
is a very bright and useful little story, and so is “ Floreen’s Golden
Hair.” The remaining tale, “ The Girl from under the Lake,” is-
longer than these two, indeed exactly as long as “The Walking
Trees ;” but somehow it has won our heart less than the others,
perhaps because we have studied it less carefully. The human
parts seem to have been made too human and too natural to
mingle successfully with the superhuman or the subterhuman parts.
Will the circumstance of this book’s being published in Dublin
interfere with its receiving such full and favourable notices from
the Westminster Review, the Spectator, the Times, the Atheneum,
the Pall Mall Gasette, &c., as we see appended to the advertise-~
ment of its sister-volumes, “ The Little Flower Seekers,” “ Puck
and Blossom,” &c. “The Walking Trees” is a finer. work of art
than any of its predecessors.

‘We wish to be very truthful in these brief notices of new books.

Notes on New Books. 49

‘We have often wondered at the eulogies bestowed in excellent pe-
riodicals on books for which these pages had only a scanty word of
praise or none at all. This remark is meant to emphasise the very
earnest welcome that we consider due to “ Lina’s Tales” by Mrs.
Frank Pentrill (M. H. Gill & Son). It is as prettily got up &
book as ever made a good little girl’s eyes dance in her head with
delight ; and the two stories, one of ten chapters and the other of
eight—well, all we can say is that we have read them through
without skipping a line, and we consider them exceedingly good,
wholesome, and pleasant. The writer, though her English style is
pure and graceful, is evidently quite at home among French ways
and places; and this delicate foreign flavour adds zest to her lively
story-telling. May we relieve the misgivings of anxious mammas
on one very prosaic point ? The price is only a shilling and a-half.
“Lina’s Tales” is the first book, on the title page of which we
have seen the name of Mrs. Frank Pentrill as authoress; and we
are quite sure it will not be the last. The possessor of sucha lively
style, and such a lively fancy, will not be able to resist the
requisitions certain to be laid upon her again and again for work
like this. The stories are interesting and very prettily told; and
altogether “Lina’s Tales” must not be confounded with the com-
mon herd of children’s books which are only pretty and harmless.

The confraternity so widely diffused over the Catholic world,
the members of which are called in France Congréganistes, in
Jesuit Colleges, sodalists, and in convents “Children of Mary,”
celebrated on the 5th of December, the third hundredth anniver-
sary, not of its establishment, but of its regular canonical erection
and papal confirmation and approbation by a brief of Pope
Gregory XIII. The beautiful name Enfant de Marie is now
associated more with the devotus fwmineus sexus; but the female
branches of the organisation had hardly a recognised existence
till the time of Pope Benedict XIV., when the Sodality had been
at work for some two hundred years. It can reckon on ita rolls
Popes, emperors, statesmen, generals; and indeed, we think that
Father Delplace, 8.J., might have given more interesting statistics
of this kind, the names of the most distinguished members, &c.,
than we can find in the 230 pages in which he has told the Histoire
des Congrégations de la Sainte Vierge, just published at Lille and
Bruges. May Our Blessed Lady reward the pious diligence which
has produced so admirable a souvenir of the Tercentenary of her
Sodality !

An excellent present for Christmas, appealing, however, to

50 Notes on New Books.

different constituency from Mrs. Pentrill’s, is the new edition of
The Lectures of a Certain Professor,” by the Rev. Joseph Farrell,
To descend again to the prosaic detail of price, it costs exactly
the same as the “ Walking Trees and Other Tales”—namely, three
shillings and sixpence. Every time that we turn to these not
unfamiliar pages, our admiration increases for the thoughtful and
genial wisdom and rare beauty of style that make Father Farrell’s
book of Essays one of the most brilliant literary achievements of
any Irishman of our time.

In the same category with the preceding, as another great Irish
success, which, in its second edition, is much cheaper and yet
quite beautiful enough for Christmas purposes, we may name Mr.
Justice O'Hagan’s “Song of Roland.” The more we ponder on its
the more we marvel and rejoice that so eminent a literary feat was
reserved to be accomplished so successfully by the busy lawyers
who is now chief of the Irish Land Commission.

The accomplished daughter of the late Colonel Chesney conveys,
ina very agreeable manner, a vast amount of information about
Egypt, under the title of “The Land of the Pyramids.” The
publishers, Cassell & Company, have been wonderfully liberal in
illustrating the lively narrative with pictures and portraits, very
well engraved and nearly as numerous as the pages.

We reserve for next month extended notices of an important
work by the Most Rev. Dr. Ricards of South Africa, and two
learned treatises which have been sent by New York publishers.
We must mention “The Catholic Hymnal,” by the Paulist, Father
Alfred Young, large volume containing the finest collection of
hymns and canticles, words and music, that we have ever seen.
Many of the hymns are original.

A very much smaller collection, but excellent in its kind, is
“St. George’s Hymn Tune Book,” compiled by the Rev. Joseph
Reeks (Burns & Oates), which has reached a second edition.

The Rev. D. Chisholm of Aberdeen has brought out already
nine monthly penny parts of “ The Catholic Child’s Treasury,” for
which Messrs. James Duffy & Sons are the Irish agents. Admir-
bly selected stories and anecdotes from the Lives of the Sainte
and other sources.

Mrs. Cashel Hoey, who has written so many successful novels
of her own, has given M. Charles D’Hericault the benefit of her
great literary skill in turning into English his excellent tale, “ Les-
Aventures de Deux Parisiennes pendant la Terror,” which Messrs.
M. H. Gill & Son have brought out most readably under the title

Notes on New Books. 51

of, “1794: A Tale of the Terror.” This firm rivals on its own
premises the best London book-binders, representing ingeniously
on the cover the bonnet rouge and the guillotine. This is very
superficial criticism; but we have said already that it is an
excellent tale translated excellently.

“The Foundation of Death: a Study of the Drink Question,’
by Axel Gustafson (Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co.), is a fine volume
of six hundred pages, full of the most solid and interesting matter
concerning the use of intoxicating drinks. Its learning and
literary skill are unquestionable. Cardinal Manning has com-
mended it earnestly. Fifteen hundred copies were sold in five
weeks. It is sure to run through many editions, and to be always
a standard work on the subject. Though some of its conclusions
would not pass the censorship of the Catholic moralist, its immense
array of well-authenticated facts cannot fail to produce wholesome
impressions on all who study them for their own profit, or for the
good of others whom they more practically concern.

From Mr. Washbourne of London, we have received at the
last moment two new story-books, one of which pleased us greatly
—‘ Snowflakes, and other Tales,” by M. Sinclair Allison. Shall
we say Mr. or Mrs. or Miss? Miss Allison has a bright fancy
and a graceful style. We recommend this pretty book cordially
to the notice of our juvenile readers and their aunts; and when
we next see Miss Allison’s name on a title page, we shall open the
book with interest. The other tale from Paternoster-row is not

for children, and has a good deal of cleverness and variety—“ The-

Brides of Kensington ”—but Miss Bridges ought to have submitted
her book to some judicious censor who would have cut out sundry
phrases about the doctrine of a Trinity and about a religious
vocation, &c. Have not those conversion stories been a little
overdone? The conversation is a good deal in the old Amanda
Fitzalan style, from whom indeed one of the characters takes his
name.

“Art M‘Morrough O’Cavanagh, Prince of Leinster, an
Historical Romance of the Fourteenth Century” (M. H. Gill &
Son), is the fourth of a series of novels founded on Irish history,
each of them filling an ample tome of some seven hundred solid
pages. The literary and patriotic ardour which makes Miss
M. L. O’Byrne persevere in such labours is worthy of earnest
praise. But the author of “The Collegians” failed, we fear, to
secure readers of his Irish historical novels; and Miss O’Byrne’s
style is not so attractive as Gerald Griffin's. Her previous efforts

52 Our Contemporaries.

have been commended by such journals as The Month, The Tablet,
and The Nation ; and the present tale is equally meritorious in its
aims, its spirit, and its execution. But its perusal requires a good
deal of the author’s knowledge and enthusiasm.

“The Catholic Family Annual for 1885” is one of the best
things ever published by the New York Catholic Publication
Society, which has done excellent service to Catholic literature.
At home, Messrs. James Duffy & Sons have just brought out a
large and handsome prayer-book, compiled by Father Jarlath
Prendergast, O.8.F. It is called The Franciscan Manual, and is
specially adapted to the use of Members of the Third Order of St.
Francis, so earnestly recommended in a recent encyclical of Leo
XIII.

Some other books must wait till next year. May it be a happy
year for our Magazine and its readers !

OUR CONTEMPORARIES.

GREAT deal of good, honest literary work is done, week by week
A and month by month, all the world over, along with plenty that
is neither good nor honest. Useful and interesting subjects are served
up in convenient doses in the periodical press. Some think that this
makes the writing and reading of complete and solid treatises im-
possible; but many eubjects and many readers do not admit of com-
plete and solid treatises. Most people can crush into a short paper
all that they know on a subject and more than most people care to
learn about it. Meanwhile, books also go on getting written and
printed in sufficient numbers.

‘We must confine ourselves to the Catholic periodical press, and in
the Catholic periodical press we naturally single out those that single
us out, and we limit our notice to those that take the trouble of in-
viting our notice.

Which is farthest away, Boston or Philadelphia? Notre Dame
in Indiana, is farther away than either; but the Ave Maria is already
familiar to all our readers, and we believe it has secured a wider cir-
culation than any similar publication. The Amerscan Catholic Quarterly,
whose home is the aforesaid City of Brotherly Love is a worthy suo-
cessor of Brownson’s Review, and a worthy rival of the Dublin; and it
has fully maintained its high standard of excellence. From Boston

Our Contemporaries. 58

comes to us regularly month by month Donahos’s Magazine, which aims
at a large popular circulation and hits the mark. It furnishes &
very full bill of fare suited toa great variety of palates. We have
noticed no more original papers in any of its numbers than the one to
which the place of honour is assigned in November. It is contributed
by Mies Hannah Lynch, and is full of minute condition which is evi-
dently the fruit of a careful, loving study of the subject. Fortunately
the condition is set forth to the best advantage with the aid of a lively
imagination and a picturesque style which will not surprise anyone
who recognises in the contribution to the transatlantic magazine, the
author of that exceedingly vivid piece of word-painting about the
middle of our last year’s volume under the title of “ Nature’s constancy
in Variety.”

The Catholic World is another visitor from the States, its head-
quarters being New York. It isa dignified organ of Catholic thought,
and is certainly one of our most creditable representatives in literature,
strong rival of anything on this side of the Atlantic. It does not
seem to be stronger but weaker in fiction.

The Messenger of St. Joseph is published nearer home—at Thurles
The paper does no: do the printing justice, and neither of them is
quite worthy of the excellent matter set forth. Excellent matter, and
we can discern a steady improvement month by month. We take such
an interest in anything bearing St. Joseph’s name that we may stoop
to such minute matters as the colour of the cover: it is patrictic but
unworkable. A lighter colour letting the table of contents be seen to
advantage on the outside cover (like—like—erubesco referens—like our
own!) would be a decided improvement. And must the advertisements
be ao monotonous? The poems are very often spoiled for want of a
white-line between the stanzas. If Thurles cannot attend to these
technical points, it is not worthy of the honour of printing St. Joseph’s
Measenger ; but we think it can, and that is why we chide it for almost
spoiling a very beautiful and pathetic story by the way page 158 is
printed. Very prettily told that “Novice-Master's Story” is, and
there are other papers as good in the last two numbers of Zhe Messenger
of St. Joseph, which has improved steadily in the two years of its young
and vigorous life.

Another Messenger has lived through a greater number of years.
The Hessenger of the Sacred Heart began its work in English in the
year 1869, and has appeared punctually every month since then. As
the shilling magazines have very generally become sixpenny, so the
Hessenger also ‘stoops to conquer” and hopes to attain a wider cirou-
lation among the pious Catholic public by a large diminution of price.

Separate numbers will cost twopence; but if you send a postal order
for one shilling and sixpence to Rev. A. Dignam, 8.J., St. Helen’s
Lancashire, the Messenger of the Sacred Heart will bring its messages to

54 Our Contemporaries.

you every month for the year 1885; and I think you will not dissolve
partnership next Christmas twelvemonth.

The League of the Oross Magasine pursues its modest and useful career
with much spirit and good taste. Miss Kershaw has prose and verse
in the November part, both short and both good.

A paragraph from The Weekly Register of London is going the
rounds of the American newspapers to the effect that, short as has been
the existence of The Irish Ecclesiastical Record, it has already made
bishops of four of its Editors—Dr. Moran the new Archbishop of
Sydney, Dr. Carr the Bishop of Galway, the late Dr. Conroy of Ardagh,
and the recently appointed Coadjutor of Clonfert, Dr. Healy, who has
frequently enriched our own pages also with learned contributions con-
nected chiefly with the ecclesiastical antiquities of Ireland. The present
editor of the Record, the Very Rev. Robert Browne, Vice-President of
Maynooth College, is fully maintaining its high standard of excellence.

Gill's Tlustrated Magazine for Young People is improving each week.

We had almost overlooked in this notice of “ Our Contemporaries”
one that comes to us by mistake—TZhe Season, Lady's Illustrated
Magasine. It is an English issue of the well-known journal of dress
and fashion, La Saison. In its fashion-plates, and its practical discus-
sion of all of those mysterious subjects which employ the thoughts of
one class of the daughters of Eve, and the hands of another class, The
Season seems to have good value for a shilling ; but further the present
critic is not competent to pronounce.

( 55 )

MARCELLA GRACE.

BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

Avraon or “ masrzx’s uteToRY,” “THR WIOKRD WOODS OF TOBRREEVTL,” “ ELDEROOWAN,”
“THE WALEINO TREES AXD OTHER TALES,” ETC., HTC.

CHAPTER III.
AT HOME IN MERRION-SQUARE.

Mars. Timothy O'Flaherty O'Kelly was sitting in her own particular
snuggery in her handsome house in Merrion-square, and opposite
to her on the hearth sat Father Daly, of Ballydownvalley, Distresna,
Back-o’-the-mountaing, in Connaught. All of the above three names
had to be put on an envelope expected to find its way into the good
priest’s hand when he was at home. Backothemountains was the
post town, the name of which had been Englified for convenience
sake. Ballydownvalley was the parish administered by Father
Daly, and Distresna was the townland on which his thatched cabin
and cabbage-garden stood.

“No, Father Daly,” the lady was saying, “with all due
respect to you and your views I must assure you I have made up
my mind that I will never be induced to return to Crane’s Castle.
Since the people have become so ungrateful as to refuse to be
satisfied to live under the rule of an O’Kelly without grumbling,
I will no longer sacrifice my own little pleasures in life to spend
my time among them, and to show them my countenance. They
object to their rents—the rents that their forefathers paid without
complaint—— ”

“ Or promised to pay and could not,” put in the priest.

“True, the rents were often remitted, for which grace they did
not scorn to be deeply and everlastingly grateful. The present
race will never be thankful for anything.”

“Try them,” said Father Daly, drily.

“Try them? Really, Father Daly, I am astonished at you.
Have I not built them a schoolhouse, put them up new houses, in
which they refused to live——”

“ Not being able to meet the demand for increased rent which
the mere possession of better dwellings did not enable them to
pay,” said Father Daly, quietly.

“Did I not give the women flannel-petticoats. and) shawls

Vou. xm, No 140. February, 1885. 6

56 Marcella Grace.

when they were so miserably clad that I was ashamed of them as
my tenantry P”’ persisted the old lady, with an angry flash of the

res.

“ And paid for them out of the surplus rent which was in your
pocket and ought to have been in theirs,” returned the priest, with
mild bluntness.

Mrs. O'Kelly breathed hard, and sat still for a few moments,
trying bravely to restrain her wrath, for'she was a good Catholic
and a kind-hearted woman according to her lights, and to quarrel
with old Father Daly who had been parish priest of Ballydown-
valley for thirty years, whom she knew to be honest, unselfish,
and devoted to his duty, besides being her sincere friend, with all
his plain speaking, would have been to her a catastrophe much to be
deplored. She looked upon him as one 80 blinded by the heavenly
lights of his vocation as to be an impossible guide to a sensible woman.
of the world like herself; and though, from a religious point of
view, she held that there could be no more worthy soul alive
than this priest, yet from her vantage ground as practical woman
and landlord, her own common sense (as she called it) appeared to
her a far more respectable thing than the weaker enthusiasm of any
one whose only concern in the universe was avowedly with charity
and prayer.

“No, I will not be angry with you, Father Daly,” she said,
“though I find it very hard to keep my temper. The O'’Kellys
were always friends with their priests, no matter- iú

““How misguided the priests might be in venturing to give them
a warning,” said Father Daly, slyly, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Exactly. Priests are rortals, after all, you know, old friend
and they are liable to make mistakes like the rest of us sinners.”

“Too true.”

“ And so, you must allow me to remain where I am, and do my
duty in my own way. I have been driven out of the country
where my ancestors, who spent their money freely there——”

“Hunting, drinking, roistering, keeping open house for their
equals in station and in folly,” said Father Daly, “ not in any way
that was of use tothe poor. If you were one of these, my dear
lady, I would not be asking you to return to Distresna. Better
for the people to be deserted by their natural protectors than to be
subject to the-bad example of such as the O’Kellys of bye-gone
days.”

“T agree with you there, though the people need not have been
deserted if they would have learned to be content. But their

Marcella Grace. 57

grumbles and their menaces I will not endure. And I wonder
greatly, Father Daly, that you would choose such a time to come
here and make such a proposal to me. The murder that occurred
last night, of a landlord whose property lies not fifty miles from
mine, ought to be a sufficient answer, and a very terrible one to all
your suggestions as to my conduct. There was a man who, I doubt
not, did his duty.”

Father Daly shuddered and sighed heavily.

“I cannot enter into that question,” he said. “ All I can say
is, if you were to follow my advice you would run no risk. I pray
God,” he went on with deep emotion in his face and voice, “ that
whatever may happen, none of my flock may ever be stained by
ever so small a participation in the crime of Cain. If I sympathise -
with their cares and miseries, and strive with them to obtain
redress, it is only on the express condition that they obey my
teachings on higher matters and keep themselves sinless before
God.”

“I am sure you do your best,” said Mra. O'Kelly, in an uncon-
sciously patronising tone. “ But I am not going to take the odds
as to whether the secret Fenians of your parish may receive orders
to finish me or not. I have other duties in life besides trying to
humour an unreasonable tenantry. I go to daily Mass, even when
the weather is cold and my rheumatism troublesome. I have
many charities on my hands here. I do my share in upholding
the respectability of the Irish gentry in Dublin. I pay my respects
periodically to the viceroy of my queen. Neither do I forget to
patronise the home manufactures of my country; only this day I
expect a parcel of rich tabinet, woven in Dublin, to make me a
castle train. My modiste wished me to have it of Lyons velvet,
but I said “no, not unless it can be made for me in Ireland.’ But,
oh, Father Daly, there is something else I want to say to you.
What am I to do about these dreadful O’Flahertys ?”

“Who are they, ma’am?” said the priest, his mind still
running on his miserable parishioners.

“Why, don’t you know? The people who expect to be my
heirs; hardly kindred, so very distantly related, and have always
been as disagreeable to me as they could be. I simply can’t bear
them, Father Daly, and yet I have no nearer of kin. Am I
obliged to leave them my property, or can I bequeath it all to the
church, or the poor?”

Father Daly reflected a few moments while an. expression
something like bitterness flitted over his benevolent countenance.

58 Marcella Grace.

He knew the O’Flahertys to be rack-renting, overbearing people,
whose tenants were in even a more wretched plight than the
people of Distresna. It seemed, then, that his flock were doomed
to fall from bad to worse. As for the alternative so wildly pro-
posed by the lady as a last means of defeating the impertinent
hopes of the objects of her dislike—that is, the idea of her leaving
her property to the poor—well it suggested to the priest one of
those fine ironical touches which life is always putting to our plans
and projects. On the one hand, a half-starved population drained
of a rent a fair deduction from which would help to feed them,
and on the other a fortune setting out to look for the poor!

“I cannot undertake to advise you about that,” he said. “ Are
you sure you have no nearer kindred in the world than the
O'Flahertys P”

“I am afraid—I am quite sure. For a long time I had some
hope that a younger branch of our family might turn up. There
was one who sank in the world and was forgotten. He might
have left heirs, but I hardly hope now to discover them, if they
exist. At one time I even thought of adopting somebody. There
is Bryan Kilmartin, a fine fellow and always a pet of mine till
lately. Since he has shown such very erratic tendencies, quite
mixed himself up with Nationalists in politics, I, of course, have
changed my views, And seeing that he has disappointed me I
shall look for no ope else. Now, stay, you are not going away,
Father Daly. Would it really be right to leave all I have to the

cP”

Poerather Daly had taken his hat, and only for this question
would have gone out of the room with his present thoughts
unspoken. But Mrs. O’Kelly’s eagerly repeated query about the
poor was the last straw that broke the back of his patience.

“When you are about making that will” he said, “consult
some one who knows less of your hardness to those poor whom
God placed in your power in this life, thanI do. Better, I tell you,
to do good while you live than try to snatch back at it with your
dead hand. Better be just with your worldly goods from a pure
intention than assume generosity in your last hour for the purpose
of gratifying your dislike to your neighbour.”

He raised his hand in warning, and the old lady got up from
her chair and confronted him, with angry eyes and a convulsive
movement of the head.

“That will do, Father Daly,” she said with an, hysterical
quaver in her voice. “I will trouble you no further at present. Do

Harcella Grace. 59

not let me detain you any longer, and please don’t return here
till I send for you.”

“I will not, ma'am. Trust me, I will not,” said the priest,
faintly, and turned away to the door, feeling with a pang that he
had lost an old friend and injured the cause of his people as well.
He fumbled for his stick in the hall, and took an umbrella instead,
then had to turn back and rectify his mistake.

“Now, what does be ailin’ Father Daly to-day anyway?”
said the butler to himself, as he stood on the threshold of the big
hall-door and watched the old man trudging down the square,
absently holding his stick upright like an umbrella, for it was
raining. “I suppose the mistress is after rakin’ him about thim
rents down at Disthresna. Throth an’ she might lave Father
Daly alone. But sure, though she’s the good misthress to live
with, still she does be the divil when she takes a thing in her
head.”

It was Mrs. O’Flaherty O’Kelly’s day at home, and visitors
were already waiting for her in the drawingroom, whither she
repaired as soon as she could remove the traces of excitement from
her countenance. As she sailed in with her rich black silk dress
trailing behind her, her black lace shawl floating from her
shoulders, and her white lace cap crowning her whiter locks, she
looked as stately an old lady as could be found in the three
kingdoms.

“ Dear Mrs. O'Kelly, how very well you're looking!” cried a
tongue. with a Galwegian brogue, and a tall florid young woman
came with a bouncing movement across the floor to meet her.

“Thank you, Miss O'Flaherty, I don’t know that a flush arising
from vexation makes one look particularly well, especially when it
gets into the nose. Now, my flush always gets into my nose, and
so I would rather you didn’t notice it.”

“Dear Mrs. O'Kelly, you are always so original. And no
wonder you are vexed. Everybody is so wretched about this
dreadful murder. Nobody knows whose turn will come next.
And to think of them following him to Dublin! It is very com-
forting at any rate to those who take the risk of staying on the
spot all the year round as poor papa does at Mount Ramshackle.
People who run away don’t fare any better, it seems.”

“Humph!” said Mrs. O'Kelly, twitching the end of her lace
shawl with nervous fingers. She was well aware of several of
Mr. O’Flaherty’s reasons for living permanently at Mount Ram-
shackle. In the first place he was what is called a Sunday-man,

60 Marcella Grace.

who, on week-days, was safe from his creditors only within his
own walls, and could not stroll abroad with security except on the
Sabbath ; in the second place, he was enamoured of the “ mountain
dew ” of his native wilds, and, being so, preferred to blush unseen
in his privacy, rather than show his rubicund countenance on the
highways of the world. So, when Miss O'Flaherty boasted that
her papa had never deserted his post at home, while other people
lived as absentees wherever they pleased, Mrs. O'Kelly always
said “ Humph !”

““ But I am sure I do not wonder,” Miss O'Flaherty went on,
sipping her tea, “at anyone running away from such ungrateful
savages. If I did not escape sometimes myself, I should die of
disgust.”

Now, Mrs. O'Kelly knew well that whatever right she had to
the gratitude of her tenantry the O’Flahertys had none. They
had built no houses and bestowed no petticoats. The tradition of
their family, still admirably cherished, had, always been to spend
twopence for every penny they could wring out of the wretched
tillers of the rocky and boggy wilderness which was crowned by
the glory of Mount Ramshackle,—owing the balance to anyone
who would credit them. Miss O'Flaherty looked on the poor of
her father’s estate much as she regarded the lean horses that
dragged her up and down the hilly roads, and the sheep that were
killed to furnish the frequent leg of mutton for the family table.
They were there for her support and convenience, and any sign of
unwillingness on their part was to be infinitely derided. Mrs.
O'Kelly knew that in very truth there was much more sympathy
between her own views of the people and those of Father Daly,
than between her own views and those of Miss O'Flaherty. And
therefore though to many and various ears the lady of Distresna
would formally abuse her tenants and complain of their treatment
of her, yet never would she be betrayed into such weakness in
presence of an O'Flaherty. Between them and herself she drew
such a broad line that by no chance or artifice could she be
brought to mingle her grievances with theirs. And it must be said,
in justice to her, that her objection to think of the O’Flehertys as
her heirs, was not entirely caused by personal dislike of them. In
spite of her present anger at the peasantry of Distresna, she felt
a genuine distaste to the idea of their falling into O’Flaherty
hands. And this distaste was strengthened when it happened, as
it sometimes would, that after listening to Miss O’Flaherty’s views
as now, she heard her in conversation with some one else, alluding

Marcella Grace. 61

to the estate of Distresna, as if it was already in the possession
of her family.

Miss O’Flaherty was not in the dark as to this peculiarity of
the old lady, but thought herself quite safe in teasing her. She
had no nearer of kin to whom to leave her lands. But when Mrs.
O'Kelly refused to reply to her remarks, as now, and began to
twitch the corner of her shawl, Miss O’Flaherty thought it
prudent to change the conversation.

“I'm just after meeting Bryan Kilmartin in Nassau-street,”
said Miss O’Flaherty, who was not above sprinkling her conversa-
tion with Hibernicieme, “and I asked him what he thought of this
murder, and how he intended to go on defending the people and
talking about their virtues.”

“ And pray, what did he answer you?” asked Mrs. O’Kelly,
erecting her head as if to declare that here was another of her
pet hobbies going to be taken from under her and ridden to death
before her eyes, and that she would not have it, would seize it by
the reins and bring it to a dead stop rather than trust it to another.
“I should think Mr. Bryan Kilmartin would have a keener
appreciation of the iniquity of murder than you could have, in
proportion to the superior size of his heart and brains.”

Miss O'Flaherty tittered. ‘Dear Mrs. O'Kelly, you do use
such eloquent language. Can you think men’s hearts and brains
are really larger than ours, now? I am nearly as tall as he is, you
know. Iconfesshe remarked that he had no sympathy with mur-
derers ; but rather spoiled the statement, however, by saying that
his opinion of the virtues of the people remained the same.”

“A rash fool is sometimes more admirable than a pradent
rogue,” said Mrs. O'Kelly, oracularly.

“Well, I wouldn't quite call him a fool,” said Miss O'Flaherty.

“TI should think not,” retorted the old lady ; and she was just
sharpening her tongue to say something which would make it
clear to her visitor that she did not forget the court that had at
one time been paid, and in vain, to her favourite-in-disgrace by
the ladies of Mount Ramshackle, when more visitors poured in,
and the conversation became general—fluctuating as to subject
between the terrible murder in the city-streets last night, and the
approaching drawingroom at the castle.

“ So lucky it was not an official !” said a sprightly girl who was
looking forward to the season of amusement which is so short in
Dublin. “How dreadful if anything had stopped, the Castle
balls !”

62 Harcella Grace.

“Now, Katty,” said her sister, “ don’t pretend to be so heart-
less!”

“Well, I did not even know him, and I hear he was an ogre,”
said Miss Katty, pouting. ““I wouldn't kill even an ogre myself.
But I never did him any harm, and I don’t see why he should
interfere with my dancing.”

“He won't,” said another lady. “ What are you going to wear
at the drawingroom P ”

“Now, ladies,” said Mrs. O'Kelly. “I am going to petition
you in favour of tabinet. I have been directed to a first-rate
weaver, who will give you a splendid quality cheaper than the
shops. I have ordered a train myself, and I am expecting the
material home this afternoon. If it comes in time, I will show it
to you.”

me The colours are so ugly,” said a graceful woman, the wife of
a leading queen’s counsel who was on the eve of being made
solicitor-general, a lady who had accepted all the recent improve-
ments in colour as to dress and furnishing. ‘Poplin will never
revive until the new delicate shades are introduced.”

“I forgot your esthetic tendencies,” said Mrs. O'Kelly, with a
compassionate smile. “ Indeed, I must say, for my part, I hope the
weavers will keep to their genuine greens, blues, and ambers,
and leave us something with a bit of colour in it. I confess I am
not of the die-away school, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.”

Mrs, O'Shaughnessy slightly shrugged her graceful shoulders,
and glanced round the fiercely ugly room which boldly claimed
for its mistress a place in the first rank of the Philistines. The
builder had long ago made the room handsome, with ceiling
exquisitely carved in wreaths and figures, and with noble old
chimney-pieces of inlaid and sculptured marble. But the gilded
consol-tables, the carpet of brilliant varieties, the crude colours
swearing at one another from ottoman to couch, and from easy-
chair to lounge, so distracted the eye that the only beautiful things
of the interior passed unnoticed.

“But, Mrs. O'Kelly,” said another young woman, the daughter
of a prominent Castle official, who had of late bravely improved
her apartments at home, “I assure you the new colours are
admitted to be the best. Why even in the wilds of Donegal the
peasants are knitting them into stockings and jerseys for sale.
New dyes have been sent over from England.”

“It may be, it may be,” said Mrs. O'Kelly. “I do not
worship everything English as you do, my dear Miss Nugent. I

Marcella Grace. 68

hold that just as many mistakes are made in England as in Ireland,
which God know is saying enough.”

And then, feeling that her temper, which had never recovered
Father Daly’s home-thrust, was getting the better of her again,
the old lady got up and rang the bell.

“See if that parcel of tabinet has come home yet, Murphy,”
she said, “and, if so, bring it to me.”

“There's a young woman down below wid it, ma’am,” said
Murphy, briskly.

«Bring me the parcel then, and tell the young woman to wait,”
said Mrs. O'Kelly.

The poplin but a few hours ago taken from Grace’s loom was
carried to the drawingroom, opened out, looped about the chairs,
hung over the back of a couch, displayed in every light for the
admiration of the assembled ladies.

“You see this is only a sober purple,” said Mrs. O'Kelly,
“Cas I would not of course go out in anything gay. And for even
duller people than me there is a lovely grey, and they have a
very good brown also and a handsome myrtle green. But I confess,
if I were young, it would be the emerald green, and the torquoise
blue, and the carnation pink, that I would be thinking of.”

After the tabinet had been admired, criticised, and pulled
about for half an hour, and two fresh tea-pots had been emptied,
fortunately not over it, but only over the debate upon it, the
visitors disappeared at last, and left Mrs. O'Flaherty O'Kelly
rather tired after her ‘ day.”

“Roll it up again, Murphy,” she said, wearily, looking at the
poplin, “ang put it in the paper, and then poke the fire. And
stay, I will go down myself and speak to that young woman.
Where is she, Murphy P”

“I put her in the library, ma’am,” said Murphy.

Mrs. O'Kelly drew her shaw] around her and moved slowly
down the stairs, sighing as she went. What with her feud with
her people, Father Daly’s denunciation of her rightminded con-
duct, Miss O'Flaherty’s general unpleasantness and particular
fling at Bryan Kilmartin, and finally, the new-fangled ways of
fashionable women who would not wear sensibly-dyed poplin for
the good of their country, her heart felt very sore. What a world
of contradictions and misunderstanding this was! It were good
to flee away from it and be at rest!

The library-door was not quite shut and she did not make
sufficient noise in opening it further to disturb the young woman

64 Marcella Grace.

from the weaver’s, who was standing at the table looking up at
a portrait that hung over the chimney-piece. In the long strip
of looking-glass that divided the mantle-shelf from the picture
frame, the face of the gazing girl, whose back was to the door,
was reflected, and Mrs. O'Kelly had not taken two steps into the
room before she stopped and stood quite still in astonishment.
The upraised face framed in its shabby little black bonnet which
she saw in the glass of course belonged to the young woman who

had brought her tabinet from the weaver'’s, and yet to Mrs.
” O’Kelly’s eyes at that moment it appeared to be exactly the same
face as that of the lady in the picture on which its eyes were so
earnestly fixed.

Recovering from her surprise Mrs. O’Kelly spoke, and Mar-
cella Grace, startled to find that she had so far forgotten herself,
in her study of the picture as to fail to hear the lady enter the
room, turned quickly round, colouring deeply.

“It was you who brought the poplin? Yes; well, please to
tell Mr. Grace that I like it very much, and will do my best to get
him some orders,” said Mrs. O'Kelly, having got qnite to the
other side of the table where she could see the weaver’s messenger
in a better light. Then she dropped into a chair, and looked long
at the girl, turned away and poked the fire, and then faced the
girl again and stared at her.

“Thank you,” said Marcella; ‘shall you require the piece of
grey poplin you spoke about P My father would like to know.”

“No—that is, yes. Wait a moment, young woman. I ama
little tired, and I forget this moment what I wanted to say to
you.”

She put her hand up to her head, and holding it there, looked
covertly at the face of the portrait.

“ Yes, it is a remarkable likeness” she was thinking, “a very
unaccountable likeness. How in the world can there be such a
resemblance between my poor dead sister and this weaver's girl P”

“ Are you Mr. Grace’s daughter P” she asked, as Marcella stood
patiently waiting her pleasure. Now, that her passing blush had
disappeared, the girl was very pale, and the clear dark beauty of
her eyes, with their proud yet tender gravity of expression, struck
the old lady forcibly.

“Yes,” said Marcella, “you may safely trust me with any
message to him.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Mrs. O'Kelly, absently, not knowing
what she was saying. She felt so strangely attracted, to. this

Marcella Grace. 65

weaver's girl that she could not bear to let her go out of her
presence without further parley ; and yet she could think of no
pretence upon which to detain her. Feeling that some effort was
necessary, she struggled to make one.

“Well, my dear, your father is a very clever weaver and I
want to talk about him and his work. You see it is raining, and
I hope you are not in a hurry.”

“Not at all,” said Marcella, “though I do not mind the rain.”

“Now, I wonder if Murphy would think it very extraordinary
if I asked him to bring the girl a cup of tea? ‘Well, I don’t care
if he does. I am mistress in my own house. And I wild know
something more about this handsome creature,” thought Mrs.
O'Kelly; and she rang the bell.

“Murphy, make some freah tea, and bring it here.”

“Is it here, ma'am P”

“Yes, Murphy.”

“I will, ma'am ; ” and Murphy stared and withdrew.

“Now, my dear, take off your wet cloak and sit down. You
must know I have taken it into my head to patronise poplin, and
I am doing my very best to stir up a feeling for it among my
acquaintances.”

“You are very good, madam,” said Marcella, as the old lady
helped her to take off her cloak and made her sit near the
fire. The tea was brought, and while the girl drank it Mrs.
O'Kelly proceeded to explain to her all about the objections which
the fashionable ladies were making to the old-fashioned dyes, and
to impress upon her that there was a necessity for introducing new
ones in the manufacture of poplin. An hour ago she could not have
believed that she should ever be induced to advocate so absurd a
movement, but in her eagerness to see more of this interesting
young woman, she had grasped at the subject as affording the only
excuse she could think of for a conversation.

Marcella listened with interest, but when the lady had ceased
speaking said, sighing :

“I fear, madam, my father is not young enough to make efforts
to improve his trade. I understand your meaning perfectly, and
T hope the younger weavers may profit by your advice. But my
poor father’s day for such things is over, I am greatly afraid.”

Mrs. O’Kelly listened, wondering to hear how well she expressed
herself.

“Well, we shall see,” she said ; “I donot mean to lose sight of
your father, however.” And then she prolonged, the conversation,

66 Marcella Grace.

by various little artifices inducing the girl to speak her mind, till
at last she could make no further excuse for detaining her, and
allowed her to depart.

As it was now quite dusk, Mrs. O'Kelly rang for her reading
lamp, and when again left alone stood before the fire-place holding
the light above her head and gazing at her sister's portrait.’ Truly
the face was wonderfully like the young face under the little black
bonnet that had confronted her for the last half hour. There was
the same broad brow expressive of mingled sentiment and strength,
the same tender mouth, the same grave and steadfast eyes. The
girl in the picture had more colour in her face and was richly
dressed, and her dark hair was arranged in a bye-gone fashion ;
but yet the likeness remained. What a curious accidental resem-
blance !

That night Mrs. O'Kelly wakened with a start out of her first
sleep, thinking her young sister long years dead, laid in her
grave at the age of twenty-one, was standing by her bed and had
spoken to her. “These likenesses do spring up among branches
of the same family, skipping a generation or two,” was the thought
standing clearly in her mind, as if some one had said the words
to her; and she lay awake all night after that, revolving the
curious suggestion in her brain. How could the daughter of a
weaver have any connexion with her family P And then an echo
of her own words, spoken to Father Daly, came floating across her
memory— there was one who sank in the world and was forgotten.
He might have left heirs, but one could hardly hope now to discover
them, if they exist.” Long before the tardy daylight came, Mrs.
O'Kelly had worked herself into a feverish state over these fancies,
and was down stairs half an hour earlier than usual, studying
again the features of the long-dead sister, who had been the darling
of her early youth.

“TI must see the girl again,” she decided, “or I shall have a
fever. I will send for patterns of all the colours of poplins at
present made. That will be a good excuse. Probably by another
light the young woman will look quite different. I was disturbed
yesterday, and in a condition to become the prey of distressing
fancies.”

In the meantime, Marcella had taken her way home, well
pleased at hearing her father’s work commended, yet fearing that
he would resent the lady’s suggestions for improvement. She
knew he believed his work to be, as it stood, the most perfect fabric
in the world. Now, if he would only teach her his art, she would

Marcella Grace. 67

strive to profit by the hints offered, and if a good market were to
open up she might employ others to help in the work. A bright
idea occurred to her, that if she could learn, unknown to him, from
some other weaver in the neighbourhood, she might ensure a
certain development for her plans before telling him of their
existence. Then she could happily provide for his old age, and at
the same time find full play for her own industrial activity. Having
arrived so far in her bright speculations she suddenly remembered
that money might be necessary in order to start her fairly. How
hard that she seemed to be driven back from every opening which
hope and energy pointed out to her! Where in all the wide world
could she find even one pound to start her upon a profitable
career P

Wrapped in these thoughts, she had threaded the gayest
thoroughfares of Dublin, without even seeing the people or the
shops, but now, having arrived at the foot of Dame-street, and
before proceeding up Cork Hill towards the Castle, she shook
herself out of her dreams and noticed the crowd standing right in
her way, staring at the placards hung out before the office of an
evening newspaper. With a painful start she suddenly remem-
bered some things that had for the moment passed from her mind—
the curious events of the night before, and the terrible fact of the
murder committed in the streets not far from her home. For the
placards on the newspaper-office were declaring the news of the
murder in huge letters to the world, and announcing a great
reward for the apprehension of the murderer, or for information
which might lead to the same.

She stood for a few moments, gazing at the placard, with a
sharp line drawn between her smooth brows, while her imagination
realised the thing that had occurred and her heart grew chill with
the horror of it. Then with a shudder she drew her thin mantle
more closely round her and turned her face away from the staring
letters on the wall, and began to make her way as skilfully as she
was able through the crowd.

Doing so, she started and drew back a little, then slightly
turned so as to get another glimpse of a face and figure standing
on the pavement, with eyes fixed on the newspaper placards. “ One
thousand pounds reward!” proclaimed the great letters on which
this gazer’s eyes were fixed. It was the hero of last night's adven-
ture who stood there in the daylight before her, the man whom
she had hidden in the closet and whom the police had searched for
in vain. Had it all been a dream, or had this tall elegant looking

Vou, xx. No. 140.

68 Marcella Grace.

man, this gentleman every inch, really lain concealed at her mercy,
actually placed his liberty and safety in her hands? Mechanically
she put her hand to her breast to feel the ring that hung round her
neck, and the small hard circlet, found by her touch, even through
the folds of her dress, assured her of the reality of much besides
its own existence.

Another glance at the gentleman standing in the crowd reading
the newspaper placards convinced her as thoroughly that this was
the man. There were the tall figure and brave carriage, also the
pale, clean-cut features, piercing grey eyes, and forehead, indicative
of high resolve. His level brows were knit in thought as he stood
gazing at the sinister proclamations. Having observed him eagerly
for a few moments, Marcella became suddenly fearful that he might
wheel round and see her so watching him, and she turned and
hurried forward on her way.

And all through the streets as she went, with the darkness
descending upon her she heard the little newspaper-boys shrieking
their direful tidings along the pavements: “ Terrible murder in
Dublin streets last night. One thousand pounds reward for any infor-
mation of the murderers!” And she began to run, to escape out
of reach of the piercing and ill-omened cries.

CHAPTER IV.
STRANGE TIDINGS.

Dunrtne the next few days Marcella traversed many times that part
of the city, lying between the Liberties and Merrion-square; for
Mre. O’Kelly’s interest in the girl had no way decreased, and she
made many excuses for bringing the weaver’s daughter to her side.
Her father’s objection to the idea of now dyes “ which the rale
ould quality in the days when Dublin had quality” never thought
of wanting, his increasing inability to work, and her own desires
, to take up his art herself, and improve upon it, and devote her
energies to its development, made fruitful subjects of conversation
between her patroness and herself, after the old lady had once for
all won the younger woman's confidence. And meanwhile Mrs.
O'Kelly had contrived to draw the girl’s personal history from her
lips. Before a week had elapsed, she had learned all about the lady-
mother whose bitter reverses of fortune had driven her to sit
meekly at the weaver’s fireside.

Marcella Grace. 69

There was a month of intense excitement for Mrs. O'Kelly, during
which she had almost daily consultations with her solicitor, and
frequently wept as she sat alone in the evenings under the portrait
in her library. So lonely had she grown to feel in her great
drawing-room upstairs, that she had caused her workbasket, novel,
and favourite foot-stool to be carried down to the room where her
sister's portrait hung, and where she was accustomed to receive
Marcella in the mornings. And here she ransacked old desks and
sorted old family letters and papers, and eagerly read the com-
munications forwarded to her every evening by her solicitor.

At the end of a month her excitement rose to a climax when
the result of investigations into the fate of a cousin of hers,
who had ruined himself after the fashion of certain Connaught
gentry of those times, and disappeared from society, was announced
to her, and when the supposition started in her mind by Marcella’s
likeness to a family portrait, finally gave place to certainty. On
the formal page, and in the stiff terms of a lawyer’s letter, such
positive assurance was conveyed to her one night asled her to drop
upon her rheumatic knees, and lift up her trembling hands to
heaven, and thank God that a daughter had been given to her old
age, and, we fear we must add, that the intolerable O’Flahertys
were defeated ! :

The next morning found her driving througk Dublin mud into
the objectionable region of the Liberties, with the intention of
seeing old Grace, and breaking her extraordinary news to him.
‘When the neat brougham stopped before the weaver’s door, the
neighbours said to each other that Michael Grace was beginning
to go up in the world again.

Marcella was out upon some message for her father, and the
weaver was smoking his mid-day pipe alone when the lady, having
climbed his stair with difficulty, ushered herself into his presence :

“I have come to see you, Mr. Grace. I am Mrs. O'Kelly.”

After a little preliminary skirmishing about poplins, she would
proceed to open her battle with this coarse and common old man,
who, unfortunately, stood between her and her desires.

“ Bedad, ma’am, and it’s welcome ye are to see the whole of
my management, An’ I hope it’s another grand gown ye're goin’
to order—something beautiful and bright, none o’ them pale spirit-
less things they do be havin’ in the silks and satins in the shop-
windows now-a-days.”

“I hope to give you an excellent order, Mr. Grace. Ilikethe
old colours myself and will always wear them, but some of my

70 Marcella Grace.

friends cry out for more sickly tints. Fashion is a ridiculous thing;
is it not, Mr. Grace?”

“Deed, an’ it is, ma'am. Niver a word of lie in that. But
niver will Michael Grace sit before a loom to weave such rubbitch
as thim pinks and greens,” he said, pitching a little bundle of
patterns of silk contemptuously on the table. “ Why, ma'am,
I've wove poplin that ’ud stand alone for ‘her Excellencyess the
Lady Liftenant—not this one, but her that was in the Castle whin
I was a younger man, ma’am, an’ was a master-weaver ;—an’ ye

-wouldn’t have found holes, in my stairs then, ma’am. Niver to

spake,” he added, with a change of tone, “of all that I wove for
my own wife, ma’am—her that was a lady born and bred, ma'am,
body an’ soul, an’ betther blood niver came out o' the province of
ould Connaught!”

It was only his way of dragging his wife’s name, half through
Doastfulness, half through genuine sentiment, into every conver-
sation he held, no matter with whom. The neighbours knew this,
and would say, “ Aye, Misther Grace, thrue for you, indeed,” and

-pass on, but Mrs. O'Kelly thought the confidence special to herself,
and very remarkable. Had anyone prepared him for her coming?
At all events this out-spokenness of his smoothed the way for her
own difficult communication. .

“I know, Mr. Grace, I know all about that,” she"said, trying
hard to keep a patronising air and not to betray her nervousness.
“ And it is about your wife I have come here to talk to you.”

Grace stared, and then quietly laid aside the piece of grass-
green tabinet he had been flourishing about in the light while he

8

“I don’t see what you can know about her,” he said, “ seein’
that none o’ her own sort ever looked the way she went, not for
years before she fell so low as to become an honest weaver's wife.
No ladies came visitin’ to see Mrs. Michael Grace, ma’am. Them
that had been her own left her to break her bit o’ a heart here at
a fireside that was no fit shelter for her. And now, ma’am, what
have ye got to say about her?”

“Only this, that I have just discovered that your wife was the
daughter of a first cousin of mine. And you must not scold me,
Mr. Grace, for I never saw her, and her father was the person to
blame.”

Grace stood looking at his visitor and patroness with a dazed
expression, linked his loose hands together, and drew himself up
with an air of incredible dignity.

. Marcella Grace. “1

“Tt makes no odds about blame now, ma'am,” he said. “I did
my best for her, and she’s gone where all the fine cousins in the
world can do nothin’ for her. The angels are her cousins now,
ma'am, many thanks to you.”

“But, Mr. Grace, though it cannot touch her, this may make
a difference to her daughter!”

At these words the weaver’s entire aspect underwent a sudden
change. All the dignity and sentiment vanished from his face,
mingled cunning and triumph twinkled in his eyes, and his very
attitude was expressive of the acuteness of his perception that,
something had turned up for his advantage.

“That’s as may be, ma'am. But ye must remember she’s my
daughter, too. What was it you were thinkin’ of doin’ for her,
ma'am P” 7

“ Your extreme frankness makes my task easier than I expected
it to be,” said Mrs. O’Kelly. “Mr. Grace, I will be as candid as
yourself. I am a childless old woman, and I have thought of
adopting your daughter as my own. I will place hor in the
position of life for which nature has fitted her, and to which
her mother belonged; and I will provide for her handsomely at
my death.”

“See that, now,” said Grace, fumbling among his patterns, and
pretending to give only half his attention to what the lady was
saying. “Sure, an’ it would be an illigant settlin’ for her. An
what would you be thinkin’ of doin’ for myself, ma’am ?”

“ But, Mr. Grace, you are not my blood-relation.”

“No, ma’am; and nothin’ at all of coorse to the girl that
you're takin’ from me—the child that I looked to for the comfort
of my last days—not many of them indeed will I see.”

After this a long conversation followed, and the end of it all
was that Mrs. O'Kelly offered the weaver fifty pounds a year to
give up his daughter, on condition that he was to see her no more,
except on rare occasions, when she might find it convenient to pay
him a visit. But this offer Grace indignantly refused.

“She'll be here again to-morrow,” he reflected, “ doublin’ her
pension to me, and in the manetime I will talk to the girl about it.
Sure it is we'll make a handsome thing out of it. Only we mustn’t
be in too great a hurry settlin’ our bargain. Och, an’ faix it’s a
fine sight betther than marryin’ the girl agin her will,and dependin’
for the rest o’ my time on a son-in-law! An’, bedad, when the girl
gets her own way wid the lady she'll be takin’ her ould father out
to drive wid her in her carriage every day. An’ it’s dinin’ wid the

72 Marcella Grace.

Lord Liftenant you'll be, Michael Grace, before you die. Divil a
doubt of it!”

Finding the old fellow grew more impracticable the longer she
stayed, Mrs. O'Kelly desisted from further bargaining on this
occasion and departed, looking forward with keen pleasure to the
unfolding of her intentions to Marcella, who as yet had heard no
hint of the changes in store for her.

When Marcella returned home with her scanty marketing she
found her father wrapped in clouds of tobacco-smoke, and beaming
with mysterious delight. He broke his news to her cautiously,
with a half fear that she would fly out of the house before he had
finished, and bestow herself unconditionally on her prosperous
kinswoman.

“It's a little story I was makin’ up to amuse myself,” he said;
“ an’, if it comes thrue, we'll have no more need for work ; so you
needn't be takin’ looks at the loom. An’ ye needn't be gettin’ ina
fright nayther, about marryin’ ; for, if it comes to pass, it’sa duke
you'll be condescendin’ to for your husband. An’ maybe it’s the
Queen herself ‘Il de recavin’ us at her table—the pair of us!”

“Father! ” said Marcella, reproachfully, thinking he was jeer-
ing at her.

“Now, what title will I be after takin’, if they offer me one P
My Lord Grace would sound well, I’m thinkin’. An’ isn’t that
what they call the dukes, machree P””

“Dear father, I’m sure you would not care for a title, if you
had one.”

“Wouldn’t I, Miss?” said Grace, chuckling with pleasure
at her utter unconsciousness of the great fortune that was awaiting
her. “ But let me tell you my story, alanna.”

“ Yes, father dear, you can tell it while I’m making your tea,”
said Marcella, glad to find him in so pleasant a humour, and begin-
ning to arrange the delft tea-cups.

“ My good little girl,” said the old man, patting her cheek,
“you and J will never part, mavourneen, while thé sod is growin’
undher my feet and not over them. Afther that you can do as you
plase, Marcella.”

Marcella put an arm round his neck and returned his caress.

“Mind you have promised that,” she said, playfully ; “ and you
are going to teach me to work, and to dye the silks to please the
fine ladies ”

“Oh, you foolish child, sure it’s you that'll be wearin’ the silke,
Aisy, now, an’ I'll tell you the whole story.”

Marcella Graco. “8

It was a long time before Marcella could take it in. She
thought her father was amusing himself with idle dreams of what
might happen, as he had always been rather fond of doing. It was
clear the lady had been to see him in her absence, and had been
particularly kind, and her friendliness had suggested the extrava-
gant fancies in which the old man had since been indulging over
his pipe.

“« And supposin’,” he said, “ that Mrs. O'Kelly was to declare
that she was your mother's cousin. ‘An’ bein’ very rich, an’
without a child,’ says she, ‘what can I do but take your daughter
for my own? An’ I'll put her in her mother’s shoes,’ says she, ‘an’
well becomes her to stand in them. For she’s a handsome girl,’
says Mrs. O'Kelly, ‘an’ a credit to the genthry of Connaught.’ ”

Marcella had got her sewing, and was listening half-amused
and half-impatient to her father’s romancing. Such thingsas this
did often happen in stories or indreams, When she was younger,
she had sometimes indulged in wild imaginings about her mother’s
people, wondering would they ever think of her, find her out, and
encourage her. But she was too old in experience to expect any
such miracle now. And it pained her to have such bright impos-
sibilities flung into her thoughts.

Seeing that none of his hints conveyed anything of the truth
to her mind, Grace at last got provoked at her.

“Marcella,” he said, “ will you put down that sewin’ and listen
to me? All that I have been sayin’ to you is gospel truth. An’
you're to put on your bonnet and go over an’ have a talk about it
all with your cousin, Mrs. O'Flaherty O'Kelly of Merrion-square,
this evenin’, Only, mind, you and me are to keep together, Mar-
cella, no matter what she says. I’m not goin’ to give up my child,
an’ be lonely in my latter days, not to plase no fine madam of a
Connaught genthrywoman, you can tell her.”

But Marcella could not be induced to set out for Merrion-square
that evening on such an errand. She begged to be allowed to put
off the visit till morning, and Grace, confident in the safety of his
cause, consented to humour her: “ Let it be, then,” he said; “ maybe
it’s as well. You'll want a few hours to think over what you'd
better say to her. These fine people.have the whip-hand of such
as you an’ me, for their edication’s in their favour, an’ they know
what words to put into their speeches, and what words to leave out
o’ them, There’s a dale o’ differ’ between dixonary words, though
plain talkin’ people would hardly believe it. Am’ everything will
depend on the bargain we can make wid her.”

74 Marcella Grace.

Btill Marcella could not bring herself guite to believe in his
. His persistence forced her to conclude that there was some
foundation for his romance, that Mrs. O'Kelly had spoken of some
relationship she had discovered between herself and the weaver’s
wife and meant to be helpful to them on account of it, but further
than this her common sense would not allow her to go in crediting
the promise of a change of fortune, although her imagination
struggled wildly to seize on all that was suggested and fly away
with it. She lay awake all night pondering the likelihoods of the
case, and the utmost she could admit was that Mrs. O’Kelly, who
had already been so wonderfully friendly, was going to assist her
towards honourably earning her bread in such a way that she could
support her father in his fast declining years and no longer need
to dwell among the lowest population of the city. In all this lay
so much cause for joy, that, accustomed to disappointment and
privation as she had all her life been, she did not know how to give
herself up to the expectation of it. The warning contained in her
father’s words, “mind we are to keep together— I’m not goin’ to
give up my child,” seemed to hint at some difficulty in the way of
the fulfilment of the rich lady's intentions, a difficulty, perhaps, not
to be overcome. Certainly she would never abandon her father—
that was beyond question. Was it not chiefly for his sake that a
change of fortune would be so acceptable to his daughter? It
was hardly conceivable to her that anyone could contemplate the
idea of separating her from him, now when he needed her so much,
and she would have dismissed the doubt as foolish only that a long
experience of living by the patronage of the better classes had
taught her the rarity of their sympathy with the natural affections
of the poor. The problem of what was meant and intended by the
lady's strange communication and promises (exaggerated as they
might be by her father’s eanguine imagination) became at last too
much for her patience and her incredulity and she counted the
hours till the moment might arrive when she could hear from Mrs,
O’Kelly’s own lips what wonders she proposed to work within the
future of two humble lives.
Her father was up early and fussing about, pressing her to eat
a good breakfast, and showing her many extraordinary little atten-
tions; and the thought struck upon her heart with a pang, that she
was perhaps more precious to him now when good fortune seemed
about to drop upon her, than she had been when she had suffered
hunger and hardship that he might be as comfortable as it was
within her power to make him. Starting from the thought how-

After Aughrim. 75

ever, as if it had been a crime, she found a thousand excuses for
him, even if such were the case.

As much to relieve her own suspense as his impatience, she
hurried early across the city upon her errand of fate.

Mrs, O'Kelly was waiting for her with a feverish anxiety that
was more than equal in intensity to the eagerness of old Grace
himself. As soon as the girl appeared, and they were alone in
the library together she took her by both hands and looked, with
feeling that was almost passion, in her eyes.

“Is this my child, my adopted daughter?” she said, with a
quaver of emotion and age in her voice. ‘Marcella, I have a
great deal to say to you. I have been watching for you all the
morning, my dear.”

AFTER AUGHRIM.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ THE MONKS OF KILCREA.”

O you remember long ago,
Kathaleen,
‘When your lover whispered low,
é Bhall I stay or shall I go,
Kathaleen ?”
And you answered proudly, “ Go
And join King James and strike a blow
For the Green.”

Mavrone! your hair is white as snow
Kathaleen !

‘Your heart is sed and full of woe—

Do you repent you bade him go,
Kathaleen?

And through your tears you answer “No!

Better die with Sarsfield so

Than live a slave, without a blow
For the Green.”

NOTES OF A BHORT TRIP TO 8PAIN
BY JOHN FALLON.

Parr IV.— Visrr To GRaANADA.
From Seville eastwards the railway runs through a; paradise of
cultivation, justly called the “ huerta ” (garden). Everywhere the
golden harvest is reaped and gathered ; and here, for the first time,
I witness the delightfully primitive sight of horses treading out
the corn! They are driven, four abreast, and sometimes five, round
and round, by one solitary man, who stands in the centre of the
rustic circus, holding them all by a single rope.*

In a few exceptional cases the driver is seated on a small vehicle,
probably his own manufacture, attached to one of the horses: it
looks like a sleigh, but it is easy to see that it rolls on amall discs
of iron. Scenes like this, as old as the Bible, fixed the educated
eyes of Layard in the wilds of Armenia; but fancy viewing them
from the windows of a railway carriage, here in Andalusia!

‘Already ploughing for a second crop (perhaps a third) is fast
progressing: this, remember, in the middle of June! Four adjoin-
ing furrows are turned almost abreast, not by a steam-plough, but
by four wooden ones, drawn by four teams of oxen. The fur-
rows are not cut straight home to the head-ridge, but they curve
and actually turn round as they approach it, in a manner that
probably was fashionable when Virgil wrote his eclogues. Still, let
us not scoff at those simple methods of the olden time, since, with
the magic aid of sunshine and moisture, the yield, twice or even
thrice a year, would put even Midlothian to the blush !

Nor let this talk of harvest-work and tillage lead you to imagine
that the landscape is all one monochrome of buff and yellow stub-
bles, at this season of the year. Olive groves, at frequent intervals,
spread their leaden, yet grateful freshness for miles, inwards to the
foot of the hills, and up their slopes. And tall trees strange to me,
blacker in foliage than ever I had seen before, cluster in clumps,
each tree like a captive balloon on a straight stem. I can assure
you the wealth of cooling contrast which they form isa thing
which, once seen, will scarcely be forgotten.

At a mid-way station, called Bobadilla, we stop to dine; this

* This charming scene, I have no doubt, is familiar to you in pictures; and I
can truly assure you thet not one of them, eo far as I know, lisa exceeded or
approached the Arcadian beauty of the reality.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 7

place is twenty leagues from Seville, and about the same from
Granfda. The name sounds Moorish, and the dinner, to me, was
almost Oriental in the novelty of its ways. | Anyone, for instance,
who has ever dined at a French railway station, will retain a rather
lively remembrance of the clatter of knives, and plates, and the
ceaseless cry of “garcon ... gargon.” Here people devour like
true hidalgos, in stately silence; and a mere clap of the hands (two
fingers of the right on the palm of the left) brings a stately
attendant immediately to your side.

Back to the carriages, we change trains, entering one just arrived
from Malaga, furnished in saloon fashion, with movable sofas and
arm-chairs. You can scarcely conceive the luxury of movable
equipments, where sunshine and air currents are equally to be
avoided. At home an air-current means gentle coolness; here it
may mean exactly the reverse as it often did to-day, rushing in
like a furnace-blast from the roasting fields. As for the sun, I do
not like to speak disrespectfully of his majesty : but I can record
that a thermometer, which I carry with me, steadily marked 94°
in the shade, in a cool corner, on a disengaged seat! Still the heat
is really not oppressive, so dry is the air; and, incredible as it may
seem, there is no dust as yet !

At each station, as we pass along, a chorus of watersellers,
young and old, men and women, fills the air with the cry of “ agua-
@a...agua-a-a...” For a “cuarto,” or less, if you have the
coin, you can purchase a full tumbler of the heaven-sent liquid : for
a “real,” you become the absolute proprietor of a small jar of it,
and at leisure, as you proceed, you can exercise your ingenuity in
trying to drink out of one of its strange double vents. The jar
is but a frail tiny thing of unglazed’ pottery, specially made as
porous as possible ; still its mould is antique, like an Etruscan vase.

I am delighted with my friends, the Andalusians, as fellow-
travellers. Courtesy, combined with perfect ease, seems to be
their prevailing characteristic. An Andalusian will take off his
hat to you, as he enters your railway carriage—in fact he will make
a stately bow to all the company, as if they were peers. Thenext
thing he will do, probably, is to take off his coat, and make himself
comfortable and happy with his cigarette case. But here, again,
his “ politesse de cceur ” intervenes, for he will never light till he
has first offered his joy-inspiring package to every mortal within
reach of his arms, and nobody must refuse : to do so is an affront.
Five minutes after you may produce your own cigarette-case) and
offer it to him in return ; rest assured he will accept as a matter of

78 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

course, without hesitation, and with a genial smile. 'To refuse a
cigarette in Andalusia is a downright rudeness, which a Spaniard
never is guilty of. If you are really a non-smoker (which pre-
supposes also that you are a foreigner) a polite speech will extricate
you from the dilemma, thus: “ Muchas gratias, seior, no fumo, lo
siento mucho.” (Many thanks, signor, I do not smoke, I regret it
exceedingly). Say this with an air of smiling regret, mispronounce
the words as well as you can, and you will soon feel that you are
forgiven.

I cannot help noticing here, as in the puszta of Hungary, the
melancholy absence of detached cottages.* When people come to
reap the wide-spreading harvest, they apparently travel prepared to
camp out in their waggons, till the work is done. Several times
to-day, I observed them in happy groups, having their afternoon
meals, or siestas, under the tent-like shade of their four-wheeled
vehicles, with shaggy dogs mounting guard ; for here, as in every
clime, the dog is the true and ever faithful friend of man.

As evening falls, we get into a country of hills and ravines,
where the husbandmen have their homes. Here the pomegranates
flower round the clustered cottages, in a blaze of scarlet; and
oleanders are growing wild along the dried up water-courses and
the sides of the deep glens, in gorgeous burst of violet blossoms,
like our rhododendrons at home.

Soon a further change comes in the landscape: the hills close
in, volcanic-looking and steep. We run along their rugged slopes,
we get into their very heurt, and the whistle of the steam-engine
echoes from their heights. And now tall, handsome “ guardias
civiles,” two-and-two, perfectly uniformed and equipped, pry into
our carriages at each station, and scan us to see if we are brigands
—proof that such personages are not an unknown quantity in
these parts. What an army ten thousand of such “ guardias”
would make! :

Shortly after seven the sun goes down, disappearing behind the
encircling hills in a glow of crimson. Scaroely has this glory faded
away when, as if by magic, the whole scene of firmament and
mountain turns to blue and silver. The steep hill-sides literally
sparkle in the marvellously clear moonlight, and the shadows are
dark as jet. Soon we pass through the famous “ Vega,” but of it
I can tell you nothing as yet, for it looked like a sea in the delusive
glare. :
And now, at length, Gran&da is reached, a place associated in
* Detached cottages, to me, are almost an essential item of a true Arcadia,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. “9

every mind with poetic recollections of earliest reading. Right
eagerly I jump into the diligence of the “siete suelos,” securing
a front seat delightfully open to the night air on every side.
Four mules form the team, gorgeous with tassels, and tinkling with
Dells. These the coachman sends along through the narrow and
uneven streets, without mercy for the dumb animals, or for our
tired limbs. An English charioteer would moderate his pace over
the sharp channels, and do his work in silence; our friend here
never slackens, and keeps up a constant converse with his beasts as
he goes jolting along, addressing each of them inturn. He praises
one, whom he calls “ Alonzo ; ” he reasons with another, whom he
calls “Carlos ;” he argues with a third, reminding him of his ances-
tors; and he degenerates into downright abuse of the fourth, whom
he begins by calling “Napoleon,” and ends by calling a dog ! (perro).
Thus he drives, lauding, expostulating, and scolding, till he has
Drought us up the steep heights of the Alhambra, and deposited us
safe, but fearfully shaken, at the hospitable door of the “siete
suelos.”

Here, once fairly liberated from his romance-dispelling vehicle,
what a change! We stand beneath the tall elms, their foliage
interlaced above, the silver moonbeams gleaming through a mur-
muring stream at our feet, and the nightingales singing themselves
hoarse in the shrubberies all round.

A friend suggests the words of Victor Hugo :—

“ L’Albambra, ? Alhambra, palais que les genies
“Ont doré de leurs raves, et rempli d’harmonies ! ”

‘And here, at the very first moment of arrival, I have already

got the harmonies: right soon I trust to realise the rest.
. . .

First day at Granéda. Of course most of this day must be
devoted to the old fortress-palace of the Alhambra : and of course,
also, you will not expect from me a description of the place, such
as you can read, and no doubt, have read in books ; I will merely
note details and thoughts which, notwithstanding such reading,
come on myself by surprise, or, in some manner, as a novelty.

As you “sally out in the morning air,” the soul-refreshing
sight and sound of running water meets you at every turn, for
the main walks leading down the hill are bordered with streamlets
derived from the Rio Darro ; and those streamlets look like spark-
ling crystal as they rush murmuring along their straight and
narrow

80 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

High in the air the tall elms meet, their soft-leaved branches
forming a level canopy above, at a height of eighty or ninety feet
from the ground. It is only seventy years ago, or so, since they
were planted, a gift from the soldier-duke of Wellington ; and,
already, their slender stems have shot up to this height, straight
and branchless, till they interlace above in this strange way. And
the curious thing is, that, intermixed amongst them are cherry-
trees, not quite as straight-stemmed, but fully as tall.

Knowing that the Alhambra was, in Moorish days, the citadel
of Gran&da, you will easily believe that the hill is dotted with
fragments of the old fortifications; and thus you meet them,
detached and lonely, a gate here, a tower there, a piece of wall
further on. The masonry, to me, is strange and new: huge rect-
angular blocks of brown concrete, resting on horizontal layers of
ordinary field stones, and jointed vertically by careful brick-work :
euch is the system which, so far as I can see, pervades all the remains.
The concrete blocks themselves are obviously suggested by, and
probably derived from, the underlying rock, which is a natural
conglomerate of quite the same appearance.*

Formerly, this masonry was coated with stucco; much of
it still remains on the gates, &c. Probably also this stucco was
painted in horizontal stripes of dove-colour and pale vermilion,
for pictures show that such is still the fashion in North Africa,
where the tastes of the banished Moors survive ; but not a trace
of the colouring remains here, so far as I could see.

Some of the towers are now turned to profane use, as stables
for mules and goats. One, more romantically placed than the rest,
in fact overlooking a precipice, is occupied by an English family,
(perhaps the identical one referred to in Lady Herbert's charming
book) which comes here every season, to enjoy the pure air, and
listen to the nightingsles !

Of all the towers, outside the palace, by far the most interesting
is the “torre de la vela,” emphatically and pre-eminently “the
watch-tower” of Granfda. Washington Irving tells us how, on
its summit, the great silver cross, standard of the crusade, was
held up by Cardinal Mendoza and Bishop Talavéra, on the memor-
able morning of the 2nd of January, 1492, and how the Christian
army, which had halted, resumed its processional advance, when
the sunbeams were seen glistening on this token of final triumph.

This tower is furthermore interesting in another way: every
night, for ages past, a bell from its heights has been sounding the

“Of course they are hand-made, nevertheless.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 81

small divisions of time, to regulate the distribution of the irrigation
waters in the Vega, even thirty miles away! Irrigation, with us,
poor northerns, may mean an improvement of ten, or twenty, or
perhaps fifty per cent.; but here twelve hundred per cent. is the
minimum! Such is the divine influence of sunshine and water
combined! And be it remembered that the irrigation works of the
present day were planned and carried out a thousand years ago by
the ingenious Moors, and still remain as they left them, giving to
the husbandman a golden value to each minute of the night and day.

Strangely intruding, in the midst of such antique surroundings,
is the unfinished palace of the Emperor Charles V., built of richly-
veined red marble, in the classic renaissance style of his day, with
deeply champhered blocks, and battle scenes sculptured in bold
relief. Within the quadrangle which it covers is a large circular
“patio,” surrounded by a two-storied colonnade, Doric below,
Tonic above, supporting a richly sculptured cornice, and ending in
nothing! I found mules and goats stabled in its cool recesses ;
and charcoal-burners—an humble race—settled with their stores
within the halls built for royalty !

And now for what we strangers call “the Alhambra,” the
palace of the Moorish kings!

To see what remains of it, you pass under no giant portal, or
resplendent colonnade. Such may have ushered the sultans of
Granfda in‘former days. But now you merely ring at a small
wicket-door, hidden away in a corner; and a polite custodian in
uniform takes your largesse, enshrines your autograph in his
‘book, and carefully shows you through.

In the well-balanced mind of this official, the object is
plainly twofold: first, of course, to show you all that is to be
seen ; secondly (and mainly to him}, to make certain that you are
not one of those Philistines who love to carve or scratch their
names in the holiest places, and if possible to bring away chips
from the most precious blocks for their admiring friends at home.
To me he proved a most courteous janitor : after doing the honours
2 first time with watchful eye, he jumped at the conclusion that I
was not an absolute Vandal, and thus let me wander as I wished,
which was all that my soul desired.

And now let me tell you the nett results in briefest language.

The first court that you enter is the “‘ court of myrtles,” a name
evidently derived from the myrtle-trees that are trained along the
walls. An older name is the “court of the fish-pond” (patio de
Yalberca), and the whole interior of the court is reálly a pond,

82 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

lined with white marble, and filled with limpid water, which reflects
its surroundings like a mirror.

This name is as old as the Moors, but they attached a deeper
meaning to it, for with them “alberca” was “al berkah” (the
blessing). So that the true old name of the entrance court was
“the court of the blessing.” Thus did the Moors welcome the
coming guest !

As this is the largest court within the palace, it is well to put on
record that itis only fifty yards by twenty-six. Perhaps you will
say: “une illusion de moins” . . but if you saw its colonnade sides,
so graceful and so light, and the elongated round-arched portico that
borders its northern end, you would say that, within those narrow
limite, the workmanship is fit for heaven!

From under this portico you enter “ the tower of Comaréz,” and
find yourself immediately in “ the hall of the ambassadors.” This
hall seems to fill the tower from pavement to roof: and so well it
may, for it is seventy feet high. Its panelled dome is of cedar
and cypress, deeply carved into ribs that converge at the apex, in
a way that forms at once the marvel and the despair of modern
carpentry. Such ribbed vaulting is called “‘ artesonado ; ” and here
the pannelled surface is enriched with inlaid mother-of-pearl and
tortoise shell ; I could even detect the places where formerly there
was gold, but the too-tempting metal went, I suppose, with the
French, in the rough days of Sebastiani !

In this very spot, four centuries ago, the proud envoy of the
Catholic monarchs demanded the arrears of tribute from the fierce
Muley Hassan, and got from him the proud reply: “ Tell your
masters, the coins we now forge are scimitars and spears!” This
answer opened the war of ten years, which ended the crusade of
nearly eight centuries.

Beneath your feet, as you stand here, are the old Moorish
dungeons, whence young Boabdil was let down in a basket, to save
him from the cruel fate of his brothers in the Court of Lions,
Later in the day, from a balcony, I surveyed the steep face of these
dungeons on their external side. Hundreds of feet beneath is the
old Moorish quarter, still called the Albaicin, nestling at the base of
the cliff. So sheer is the rock on this northern face, that it seemed
as if a marble might be jerked, by any ordinary finger and thumb,
to the tiled roofs below: so steep is it, that the giant poplars,
whose roots struggle for earth-room midway down the beetling
precipice, fanned my face as I stood, and I felt as if, with out-
stretched arms, I could touch their very tops.

If from those heights the child Boabdil was lowered (as I

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 83

doubt not), tightly knotted indeed, and bravely held must have
‘been the maidens’ scarfs that gently let him down, and trembling
must have been his Moorish mother’s heart, till the welcome signal
came from below, that he was safe, and away !

Immediately adjoining is the almost too renowned “ court of
lions.” I suppose at least as many superlatives have been used
about this enclosure as about any other equal area on the face of
the globe, and most richly does it deserve them all; but the effect
of superlatives on most people’s minds is irresistibly to raise ideas
of magnitude. I would therefore wish to note that the total
dimensions of this famous court are only forty yards by twenty-
two. To picture it, you should discard all thoughts of stone-work,
and of ponderous masonry of any sort; and if your eyes have
rested on Owen Jones's laborious attempt at imitation in Sydenham
Palace, you should remember that he was attempting to imitate
the inimitable. Here the stucco is a real lace-work, as finely
traceried and as boldly undercut as if the material were ivory,
carved in China; so much is this the case that there are places
where it is not exactly transparent, but really translucent, even
where three-fold. This wonderful work rests on slender shafts of
alabaster: from these it seems to spring and grow, truly like a
palm-grove ; and, view it as you will, it is a work such as human
eyes never saw before, aud will never see again.

Opening from this court, on the north and south sides, are two
saperb halls, which act as pendants to one another. The hall on the
north side is the “hall of the two sisters,” so named, says the guide,
after two immense flags of equal size, which form part of the white
marble pavement. There is a legend which refers the name to
two captive sisters who, according to it, died within its walls, of
grief, interlaced in one another’s arms. But to me the two exqui-
site twin windows, which flood the dome with softened light, are
quite explanation enough of the name, and far more fitting repre-
sentatives than flags of what "the two sisters” ought to be.

The hall on the south side is the “hall of the Abencerrages,”
the legendary scene of the massacre of the noble clan whose name
it retains. They were entrapped into this hall and slanghtered
one by one, till a little page gave warning and saved the last: at
least so says the story, and stains like blood are shown on the white
marble pavement, for believers to become confirmed in their belief,
and for sceptics to scoff at.

Everyone knows that both those halls are wainscotted with
“azuleios” (tileg) to a height of about six feet, and that those

8

Vou, xut., No. 140.

84 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

“azuleios” form a perfect mosaic. Also that they are vaulted in
the form of a “ media naranja ” (half orange). This vaulting is
said to be “ honeycombed ;” but you would observe here that it is
not honeycombed at all, but rather made up of egg-shaped and
egg-sized recesses, tinted, as is well known, in all the primary
colours. As for the “ azuleios,” if you look closely at the genuine
old ones, you will soon learn to distinguish them from their modern
imitations, for each of the old ones is a perfect mosaic in itself.

The east end of the court of lions is all taken up by the “ hall
of justice,” which is not a hall, but rather a suite of small-sized
rooms, opening one into another by arches, those arches fringed.
with pendentives like stalactites (as if really to remind you of the
eave of Thor, where Mahomet lay concealed during the first days
of the Hegira). The faintest conception cannot be formed of the
fairy-like fretwork here, and the perspective from end to end is
absolutely magic. Well may the Arabic inscriptions, interwoven
everywhere, challenge the world for “a mansion like unto this
mansion, and for beauty like unto this!”

The characters used in these inecriptions are of two kinds :
Cufic and African. The Cufio (from Koofeh, an ancient town,
south of Bagdad) are square, and ornamental : they are used in the
conspicuous places, and catch the eye immediately. The African
characters, on the contrary, are specially designed to intermingle
and blend with the rest of the work : and this is done so cunningly
that, unless your attention is specially drawn to them, they escape
observation, though you may be looking at them all the time.
Although they are called African, the Moors of Africa used to
admit that whatever elegance they possessed was derived from
Andalusia: so that here is their true birthplace. The Cufic
characters may be looked upon as corresponding with our Roman
capitals ; the African with our Italics, without, of course, resem-
bling them in the least degree. Both sets of inscriptions are in-
variably read from right to left; but some of the Cufic may also,
at the same time, be read from left to right—at least so say the
experts !

To me far more interesting than inscriptions, either Cufic or
African, is the playful device of the Catholic monarchs, introduced
into the ceilings of this “court of justice,” touching memento of
their combined triumphs and loves—crossed arrows with characters
which mean “ tanto monta,” or, to speak more explicitly, “ tanto
monta Isabella que Hernando, Hernando que Isabella.” (Of equal
worth are Isabella and Ferdinand.)

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 85

If it would not be treason to demur, I should venture to im-
peach the truth of-the motte, and to affirm that the whole worth
of Ferdinand, very many times multiplied, could never balance the
worth of Isabella. His calculating soul never could have attracted
to his banners the chivalry of the two Castilles and of all Spain.
‘When ten thousand knights, with their followers, deserted their
castles and their homes, to stake their all on one last grand crusade,
it was not at his bidding, but to obey the summons of Isabella,
their own true queen: for her they came to fight and conquer, or
to die . . . So much for “ táto mata.”

I should have told you that on the ceilings of the principal
chambers of this “court of justice” are paintings on leather, which
area regular puzzle to the experts. Contréras, the great authority
here, is quite positive that they belong to the genuine Moorish era-
And yet they represent scenes, of human and animal life, tourna-
ments, boar-hunts, dogs, lions, magpies, &c., all perfectly contrary
to the Mahometan code. I leave this problem for the learned to un-
ravel, but wish to tell you that the scene in the central chamber
represents a lot of elderly gentlemen, bearded and solemn-looking,
like cadis in a divan, or magistrates at petty sessions, and hence the
name of the whole suite of rooms: “ the court of justice!”

Another fact, and one not too generally known: this “ court
of justice” was during a short time after the conquest, the pro-
cathedral of Grandda, while the great cathedral in the town was
still unbuilt. Here stood the grand altar, alongside was the archi-
episcopal throne. The courtly congregation must have gathered
and knelt beneath the magic colonnades that border the sides ;
the chapter and choir must have chanted their hymns in the central
“patio,” round the fountain of lions, and made their mute medi-
tations to the sound of its living waters.

Alas! that sound is not for me; those waters are silent as
death except for very great personages, or on very great occasions ;
on ordinary days, and for ordinary mortals, the fountain of lions
is merely a superb basin of alabaster, resting on the backs of
twelve stone animals ; over this basin is another, of lesser diameter,
and over that other is a vertical finial, meant for a jet, and resem-
bling a mushroom. But no jet is there; the finial is as dry as a
stick; the water in the basins is as motionless as ice. The poor
lions, denuded of their crystal screen of falling water, look almost
vulgar, and scarcely larger than Roscommon sheep. Their manes
are like fish-scales, their tails are meanly gathered round their legs ;
their legs are square stumps, squarely set, like bed-pósta; and, to

86 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

my profane eyes, the idle jeta which they hold between their teeth
look like the butts of half-finished Havannahs! Still imagination
can picture the limpid water flying high into the parched air, and
cascading from basin to basin, down to the marble pavement, and
sparkling from the mouths of those poor dumb monsters, filling the
air with melody: and, thus picturing, one can forgive the dry
inaction of the present, and pass on.

Other halls there are, beyond enumerating, over ground, and
under; one, supremely beautiful, called the “Hall of the Lindaraia,”
some say after a young Moorish princess who became a Christian
and a nun. shortly after Boabdil’s surrender of the city. But enough
of halls and courts, the work of man: one glance from the balconies
reveals the country, of which God alone could make and fill the
magic frame-work. Granéda spreads out before us,undulatingdown
and up, like a great Biecayan wave. The painted tiles, on the flat
roofs, form almost a mosaic ; each ambitious private dwelling has
its “ mirador,” each house-front is tinted in pearl-colour or pink.
Each minute detail of latticed window, each dark shrub of interior
“patio,” all is distinctly and microscopically visible to the naked
eye,through the length and breadth of the wide-spreading city.
And, if you listen, you will hear quite plainly the tinkling of bells,
of donkeys and goats driven through the streets; and every now
and again the ear can discern those quaint Moorish cries, so musical
and yet so sad, which finish ever in a minor key, and sound like
the lament for departed greatness.

Spreading away to the west is the famous “ vega,’’ its green
crops and corn looking, at this distance, like a chess-board of
emerald and gold. Hills encircle the city like a ring, each hill-
top crowned with its church and spire. Beyond those hillsa chain
of bold mountains bounds the horizon, many of them with names
familiar to readers of the siege, because the scenes of its leading
episodes. Bordering the Vega, far away to the north-west,
is the Sierra Elvira, so called from the old Phenician city of
Tiliberis. The derivation is simple : Iliberis became Albeiris, then
Albeira, then Elveira, then Elvira: and then it pave its name to the
mountain, and simply ceased to exist as a city. Granda, as a
matter of fact, is its direct offspring, and representative.

Towards the east, and only separated from where we stand by
& deep ravine, is the “ monte sacro,” also called the “ monte de los
martires.” The legend is that the remains of St. Cecilius, bishop
and martyr, were found in its catacombs, together with those of
his companions in glory. In Moorish days it was part of the city,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain, 87

all covered with houses; the old city walls enclose it still, and are
perfectly visible from this, running down its steepincline. But the
houses have disappeared, and given way to a growth of prickly
pear, which has spread just as heather or gorse spreads with us.
Still, even now, the hill is not untenanted, for, strange as you may
think it, it is the “ barrio de los Gitanos,” (the gipsy quarter), and I
can see the dark people quite plainly from here, standing at their
cave entrances,or going in and out like wild bees. They have scooped
those caves out of the soft face of the rock, where it formsa bluff,
bordering a road. At each entrance is hung a striped curtain, which
does duty as a door; and the blue smoke of their underground
cooking issues by mysterious flues bored through the solid block of
the mountain, and curls upwards from amidst the green of the
prickly cactus, many yards away from where the dwellings are. All
this I can see with perfect ease, and I vow to pay those mysterious
gentry a visit to-morrow, and tell you more about them then.

Looking further south, one can see the country of the Alpux-
arras (pronounced Alpooh-harras), with its alpine heights; and,
towering high amidst them, the Sierra Nevada, distinot to its top-
most summit (Mulhacen) and wonderfully near-looking, although
I believe that summit is thirty miles distant, and ten thousand feet
high. Théophile Gautier was quite right to describe the sierra as
“‘zebré de neige,” for its steep ravines look vertical from this, and
are streaked with perennial snow. On the whole, the gorgeous
view is such, that no writer's account that I know of has ever
approached the exquisite grandeur of the reality.

Back to the hotel, I beguiled the siesta hours reading old
legends about the Abencerrages and the Zégris in the quaint
Spanish of Gin Peréz, guessing at the words as I went along. I
should like to tell you one of them: perhaps it is an oft-told tale,
but to me it was new:

It was in the days of Muley Hassan. The 7égria had com-
passed the massacre of their rivals, and were gloating over their
success. But they had inculpated, in their calumnies, the Spanish
and Christian-born Sultana, Isabella de Solis. She, with true
Spanish spirit, claimed the ordeal of battle, and challenged the
whole Zégri clan to prove their charge in open fight. Such ordeals
were still a not altogether obsolete mode of judicial trial, and so
proclamation was made of the time and place, with all due form;
but the question ran from lip to lip, where could the Sultana find
champions, now that the Abencerrages were gone? She, nothing
daunted, sent a trusty messenger to the camp of the besiegers, to

88 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

let them know the sore strait in which a Spanish-born lady was,
in the midst of their foes, with not a man to raise an arm or utter
a word in her behalf. The day came, and the hour; the Zégris,
already triumphant, had the strongest and boldest of their clan in
the lists, armed at all points, repeating their charges and demand-

. ing judgment. The trumpets had sounded again and again; but
no champion appeared for the miserable queen, and Muley Hassan
was just the man to award sentence without qualm or mercy. At
the very} final moment, a murmur arose, and spread through the
mighty throng of spectators, and swelled into a noble cheer, for
the champions had come at last, dust-stained and way-worn, but
with quarterings on their shields such as not the proudest of the
Zégris could gainsay. So now the clarions sound again, a shrill
blast, and the battle begins. Need I tell you the result? It was
long and fiercely fought, and deadly close: but, one by one, the
Zégris bit the dust, and the heralds proclaimed them beaten, and
felons. With a haughty salute to the Sultan, and his now trium-
phant queen, the Spanish champions rode away, not only un-
molested, but crowned with applause, and the Zégris, from that
day, were doomed to extinction. Such is the brief substance of
the old legend, as told by Gin Peréz !*

Every now and again, as I read, a voice outside was singing the
most charming snatches of song, as if impromptu. I looked out,
and found it was only a peasant womar over her tub, singing to
herself as she washed. I transcribe the notes’as I took them down
from her lips while still in the air :—

It may be from the nightingales that the people learn such war-
blings ; they are very like what our thrushes sing at home, but are
probably a legacy of the Moors. If you have read Lady Herbert’s
charming book, you will remember how she gives the air of the

* As Gin Perés made many blunders, should observe that my text was a revised
one, rewritten in the light of more authentic chroniclers, such as Hermando de.
Baéza, &c., but with the old nerve of the original.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 89

“Ay de mi, Alhama,” which she says “still echoes in the hearts
and on the lips of the people.” Thus you will realise the simple
and unconscious warbling which I heard to-day.

In the cool of the evening we had a stroll down to the town.
The alaméda was deserted, but we heard a charming duet on the
guitar and mandoline: and witnessed a theatrical performance in
the open air, getting a private box in the dress circle for the muni-
ficent sum of four reals (ten pence). Even with this moderate
tariff, the audience were perfectly well dressed, and perfectly
orderly.

The mandoline is like a guitar, but smaller, and I think the
number of strings is different. It is played with a little bodkin
of ivory or hard wood, and you keep renewing the touch on the
vibrating chord as rapidly as possible: this sustains the tone, and
the note thus produced is like the sweet song of a starling: with
the guitar accompaniment, the effect is magic. It is more than a
thousand years since “Zaryab the singer” came from Bagdad,
and taught the Andalusians to enrich this little instrument with
an extra string. He also taught them to soften the tone by using
an eagle’s talon to sustain it. So potent was the spell of his music,
that it became a fixed belief that he had nightly interviews with
the Ginn, and thus got his inspirations direct from above! “ But
God only knows,” as the Moorish chroniclers prudently observe.

Reascending the steep hill of the Alhambra, we heard at least
two more serenades, voice and guitar ; but each time we approached,
the music ceased, and the coy minstrels vanished . . . Adieu— !

(90)

INTEGER VITA.
(Horace, Book 1, Ode 22.)
TRANSLATED BY SIR STEPHEN E. DE VERE, BART.

[SSULLIED honour, pure from sin,
Roams the wide world, serene, secure :
‘The just man needs nor javelin,
‘Nor poisoned arrows 0 the Moor,

Fearless ‘mid Syrtes’ whirling sands ;
"Mid rude Caucasian summits hoar ;

Or where thro’ legend-haunted lands
Bydaspes laps the sultry shore.

Once in a lonely Sabine grove
Forgetting bounds 1 careless strayed ;
I sang of Lalage, my love,
Of Lalage, my peerless maid:

A tawny wolf, all dashed with gore,
Fierce from a neighb'ring thicket sprung :
He gazed ; he fled ; no arms I bore—
No arms but love, and trust, and song ;

Such monster Daunia never bred
In her deep forest solitude;

Nor such the realm of Juba fod,
Stern mother of the lion brood.

Place me where never summer's breath
‘Wakes into life the branches bare ;

A cheerless clime where clouds and death
Brood ever on the baleful air:

Place me where ‘neath the fiery wheels
Of nearer suns a desert lies,

‘A homeless waste that pants and reels
Blighted and burnt by pitiless skies :

Icare not where my lot may be:
On scorching plain, in frozen isle,
Tl love and sing my Lalage,
Her low sweet voice, her sweeter smile,

(€91)

ORIGINAL OF THE FOREGOING.
ODR Ir.

AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM.

Ps: ts sling purus
‘Non eget Mauris iaculie, neque ereu,
Noo venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra ;

Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas,

Sive facturus per inhospitalem

Caucasum, vel gum loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me silva lupus in Sabina,

Daum meam canto Lalagen, et ultra

Torminum curis vagor expeditie,
Fogit inermem:

Quale portentum neque militaris

Daunias latis alit seeculetis,

‘Nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
Arida nutrix.

Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campis

Arbor sestiva recreatur aura,

Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Tupiter urget ;

Pone sub curru nimium propingui

Bolia, in terra domibus negata:

Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulee loquentem.

€98)

AN IRISHWOMAN IN DISGUISE.*

BY A. F. NORTH.
Parr I.

R. Froude has said, and with more truth than usually charac-
terises his utterances on Irish subjects, that the absenteeism
of her men of genius was a wrong to Ireland, greater even than
the absenteeism of her landlords. The attribute of genius can
scarcely be claimed for the subject of this sketch, whose gifts were
critical and appreciative rather than creative; nevertheless we
cannot but regret that not only were all except the first few years
of ker long life spent away from her native country, but the
change from her thoroughly Irish patronymic to that of her Saxon
husband was made ao early in her career that few of her numerous.
readers were aware of her nationality ; and England, who by com-
pelling us to coin our hearts and our brains into the currency
stamped with her image, has been enabled to appropriate so much
of our treasure, can unchallenged add the name of Anna Jameson
to that long roll of authors and artists whom she is justly so proud
of being able to count among her children.

Our knowledge of Mrs. Jameson is chiefly derived from the
memoir written nearly twenty years after her death, by her niece,
Geraldine Macpherson, who had been as a daughter to her ; but
in addition to this, her books are in so many instances records of
her own experiences ; of her travels, her friendships, her opinions
on literary and artistic subjects; that it is not difficult to construct.
from the material thus supplied a mental picture of the brave,
busy, energetic woman, always ready to make the best of a life
marred in its outward conditions, and to extract pleasure and
interest for herself and others from its most trivial details.

Anna Murphy was the daughter of an Irish artist, who was
living and working in Dublin in the latter years of the eighteenth
century. No man of spirit or feeling could remain neutral in those

_ troubled times, and Mr. Murphy was involved in the proceedings
of the United Irishmen, and, had not circumstances connected with
his professional career led to his settling in England in 1798, he

© A delightful paper was devoted to Mrs. Jameson by Mr. Henry Bedford
in our fourth volume, page 425; but it did not touch on the biographical parti-
calars contained in the following eketch.—Ep. I. M.

An Irishwoman in Disguise. 98

would in all probability have shared the fate which overtook so
many of the best and bravest of his countrymen in that fatal year.
He seems to have quickly forgotten his youthful patriotiem, and to
have settled down into a contented, fairly prosperous subject of
England, since we find him, some years later, holding the appoint-
ment of miniature painter to the Princess Charlotte. Although a
young man when he left Ireland, he was already the father of three
little girls, the two younger of whom were left at nurse in the
neighbourhood of Dublin. Anna, a spirited child of four years
old, accompanied her parents to Whitehaven in Cumberland,
where the family resided for the next few years. They afterwards
removed to Newcastle-on-Tyne, and thence, in 1803, to London,
which continued to be, during the lifetime of the parents, the
headquarters of the family.

Anna’s education seems to have been rather desultory, but her
father’s professional standing secured for her the advantage of con-
stant association with cultivated persons, and at sixteen years of age
she obtained a situation as governess in the family of the Marquis of
Winchester. The frontispiece to the memoir,engraved from a minia-
ture painted by her father at this time, represents her as an exceed-
ingly pretty girl, with regular features, bright expression, and wavy
hair cut short on the temples. Fanny Kemble, some years later,
describes her as “ an attractive-looking young woman, with skin of
that dazzling whiteness which generally accompanies reddish hair,
such as hers was.”

Anna Murphy remained for four years with the Winchester
family, and we are not told if she then continued her career as a
teacher. Indeed it seems as though it were rather her own desire for
independence than any pressing need which had caused her to leave
home. Certain it is, that it was in her father’s house that, in 1820,
she first met Robert Jameson, a young man of good ability who
was endeavouring to make name and position for himself at the
Bar. The acquaintance led to an attachment and engagement,
the latter being, however, of short duration, since it was broken
off in the course of the same year. Anna appears to have felt this
disappointment very keenly, and it was probably with a view to
affording her the requisite change of air and scene that a situation

- was found for her as governess to the only daughter of a rich
English family who were going abroad. Travel must have been
pleasant in those days—for the few who could afford to indulge in
it—and Anna Murphy’s broken heart probably added just the
touch of romantic self-consciousness which was all that was wanted

94 An Irishwoman in Disguise,

to make the journey delightful to her. She kept a diary of course,.
and in this little, morocco-bound, bramah-locked volume was to be
found the record of her impressions of Florence, Milan, Rome, and
Naples; of pictures and statues, pine-crested Apennines, eoclesias-
tical functions, fellow-travellers, and hotel accommodation; inter-
spersed with melancholy reflections on the unsatisfactoriness of
life in general, and Anns Murphy's in particular. She must often
afterwards have regretted “les beaux jours quand elle était ai
malheureuse.” This diary, written without any object beyond her
own amusement, was nevertheless her first published work. The
whole party returned to England the following year, and Anna
accepted another situation as governess, this time in the family of
Mr. Littleton, afterwards Lord Hatherton, where she remained
for some years, becoming much attached to her pupils.

During this time, she again met Mr. Jameson, and unfortu-
nately for both parties, the broken engagement was renewed.
Robert Jameson and Anna Murphy were married in 1826, and took
up their abode in a lodging in Chenies-street, Tottenham Court-
road, .

Mr. Jameson’s unamiable qualities seem to have been displayed
from the first, and the high-spirited Anna must soon have keenly
realised the contrast between his cold egotism, and the admiring
affection of her own family. It was in these early days of her
married life that Mrs. Jameson first came before the public as a
writer. The diary, confidante of her griefs during the time of
separation, was brought out for the amusement of her husband,
and portions of it were read to a certain humble friend and pro-
tegé of Mr. Jameson’s, a cobbler named Thomas, who added to
his other avocations that of a dealer in secondhand books, and
even of a publisher ina small way. This man, who must have pos-
sessed some literary insight, discovered the merits of the diary,
and offered to undertake the risk of publishing certain selected
portigns. This offer was accepted, Mrs. Jameson jestingly stipu-
lating for a guitar as her share of the profits, and “ The Diary of
an Ennuyée” was thus given to the world. In order to obliterate
all traces of its authorship, and perhaps also with the intention of
giving greater roundness and completeness to the book, it was
interpolated with certain fictitious passages, bearing out the theory
that the writer was an invalid, conscious of her approaching doom,
and ready to welcome death as a release from her sorrows. The
book even concludes with a note as if from another hand, stating
that the writer had died at Autun, and was buried in the ‘garden

An Iriehwoman in Disguise. 95

of the Capuchin Convent in that place. Mrs. Jameson was at that
time too inexperienced in literary matters to know how unjustifi-
able was such blending of truth and fiction. It subjected her to
some unpleasantness when it was subsequently discovered that the
Ennuyée, for whose sad fate much sympathy had been felt, was
well and happy ; while so far from giving unity or completeness
to the book, it introduces therein a discordant note. A certain
attitude of isolation, natural enough in a high-spirited, active,
young woman travelling with comparative strangers, appears in-
comprehensible when it is represented as that of a hopeless, heart-
broken invalid ; while some of the actions attributed to this latter,
little excursions at early morning or late at night, the.run up the
long flight of steps on the Pincian Hill, or the nocturnal ascent
of Vesuvius during an eruption, show an amount of energy and
activity strangely out of keeping with the assumed character, and
the harrowing descriptions of days and nights of pain. The
literary merit of the book, however, the beauty of its descriptions,
and the justness of its criticism, secured its success. Mrs. Jameson
obtained her guitar, and a certain amount of prestige, which was
not without its effect on the next book put forward by the author
of “The Diary of an Ennuyée.”

Mr. and Mrs. Jameson spent four years together in England—
years of which no record remains, but which could ecarcely have
been prosperous ones, since at their close Mr. Jameson determined
to relinquish his hopes of success at the English bar, and accept
a colonial appointment. In 1829, he sailed for the Island of
Dominica, where he had obtained the post of puisne judge, leaving
his wife to the companionship and protection of her own family.
Probably neither much regretted the temporary parting brought
about by obvious and natural means, although the final separation
which ultimately took place does not then appear to have been
contemplated.

The period of her husband's absence was spent by Mrs. Jame-
son both pleasantly and profitably. The first use which she made
of her liberty was to accompany her father, and their old friends
Sir Gerrard Noel and his daughter, on a continental trip, reminis-
cences of which are to be found in her subsequent volumes of
“Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad.” On her return, she
took up her abode with her sister Louisa, now married to an artist
named Bate, and continued her literary labours with increasing
success. She supplied the letterpress to a series of copper-plate
engravings which her father was publishing, in the hope of thus

96 An Irishwoman in Disguise.

utilising some work which had been most unfairly returned upon his
hands some ten years previously. The Princess Charlotte, to whom,
as we have said, he held the office of painter in enamel, had given
him a commission for copies in miniature of the celebrated Windsor
Beauties of Sir Peter Lely. The set of miniatures was nearly
completed at the time of the princess’s death, and Mr. Murphy
some months afterwards addressed a memorial to Prince Leopold,
setting forth the circumstances of the case, and asking him to
carry out his wife’s intentions by purchasing the paintings. This
the prince churlishly refused to do, and Mr. Murphy had been left
altogether without compensation for the loss he had incurred both
of time and money. Now, however, he made an effort to recoup
himself, and the portraits were published in a quarto volume, with
memoirs of the originals from the pen of the artist’s daughter.

Mrs. Jameson also wrote at this time, an introduction to
Hayter’s Sketches of Fanny Kemble’s Juliet. These had been
originally intended for publication, but were ultimately purchased
by Lord Francis Egerton, the introduction appearing among the
collected papers in “ Visits and Sketches.” Mrs. Jameson and
Miss Kemble had met at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Basil Montagu,
and although the younger lady naively records a certain feeling of
disappointment at finding the Ennuyée on whom she had wasted
much sympathy, alive and apparently happy, the acquaintance so
begun soon ripened, in spite of disparity of years, into a lively and
lasting friendship. Many of the charming letters in Fanny
Kemble’s “ Records of a Girlhood” are addressed to Mrs. Jame-
on, and the two friends seem to have continually sought each
other’s help and criticism in their respective walks of art. Mrs.
Jameson took part in the family council held on the important
subject of Miss Kemble’s dress in her first appearance; but the
ert student’s inclination for the medieval dress of the Veronese
Juliet was overruled by the practical mother of the débutante, who
held realism of costume of small account in comparison with the
ease and freedom given to the young actress by a more modern
costume.

Mrs. Jameson’s first work of any importance, the “Charac-
teristics of Shakespear's Women,” published at this time, seems
to have in a great measure grown out of her intercourse with the
Kemble family, and the discussions on dramatic subjects held with
Fanny, to whom the book is dedicated. It was written, as the
author states in the introductory dialogue, for the purpose of
expressing, by means of examples, her views on the education and

An Trishwoman in Disguise. 97

position of women—views which she was unwilling “ to fling in
the face of the world in the form of essays on morality, or treatises
‘on education,” but for which she was nevertheless anxious to
secure a hearing. She feared that aketches from the life would
degenerate into sutires, while historical characters were unfitted
for her purpose in being usually seen only under certain isolated
aspects. The sentiments and style of the “ Characteristics” are
‘perhaps a shade too highly-strung and sentimental for modern taste,
but her womanly insight and sympathy invest these wondrous
‘creations with a new interest, and Juliet, Portia, and Desdemona,
appear more real and lifelike when read in the light of her
imaginative analyses of their thoughts, feelings, and previous
history.

Barly in 1833, Mr. Jameson returned from Dominica, remain-
ing with his wife in London for some months, and quitting her
with the understanding that she was to join him in Canada—the
sscene of his new appointment, as soon as he could offer her a suit-
able home. It seems as though she were anxious to make the
anost of the short spell of liberty yet remaining to her ; for imme-
‘diately on her husband’s departure, she set out on a continental
tour, travelling alone and in a more independent fashion than in
-either of her previous journeys. She went first to Germany where
the fame of her Shakespearean studies had already preceded her
cand ensured her welcome. She had also the advantage of letters
-of introduction from Major Noel, Lady Byron’s cousin, at that
time a mere acquaintance, but who was soon to become one of her
most intimate friends. Major Noel -had lived for some time in
‘Germany, and his information and introductions proved of the
greatest service to Mrs. Jameson. To him she was indebted for
an introduction to Gothe’s daughter-in-law Ottilie, whom she
describes as “one who was in reality all that other women try to
appear,” and with whom she formed a close friendship, terminating
only with her own life. She also made the acquaintance of Dan-
necker, Ludwig, Tieck, and Schlegel, together with many others
eminent in art and letters. i

This pleasant intercourse with her new friends and confréres,
as well as her plans for future wanderings, were, however, suddenly
brought to an end by the news that her father had had a severe
paralytic stroke, and was not expected to live. She immediately
set out for England, the tedious journey of those days being
rendered almost insupportable by the fear lest she should be too
‘late. The dreaded misfortune was however spared her’; on her

98 An Irishwoman in Disguise.

arrival she found her father out of immediate danger. Although
he never thoroughly recovered, he lived for some years in a semi-
paralysed condition, owing much of his comfort and happiness to
the exertions of his eldest daughter, who took up thenceforth the
réle of Providence to her own family—a ré/e which she was des-
tined to carry out for the benefit of three successive generations.

She had again established herself in the house of her sister,
Mrs. Bate, and declining most of the invitations and engagements
that poured in upon her, she devoted herself to her literary work.
Her first occupation was that of arranging some of the various
sketches and essays she had already published, and which now
reappeared, under the title of “ Visits and Sketches at Home and
Abroad.” Many of these essays were on German subjects, social
and artistic, and were read with avidity in those days, when Ger-
many was a terra incognita to the average Englishman. Mra.
Jameson may be said to have shared with Carlyle the honour of
acting as pioneer through the yet untrodden ways of German
literature and art. The sketches are brightly and pleasantly
written; Mrs. Jameson is, as she says herself, one than whom
“no one is more easily pleased, and no one less easily satisfied,”
and her generous appreciation is often tempered with sound criti-
cism. She appears to dwell with greater pleasure on artistic than
on natural beauty; we hear more of pictures and statues than of
rivers and mountains. She also thinks and writes much on the
education and position of women, both in England and Germany ;
but the truths of half a century ago, are the truisms of to-day;
and our feelings on reading her remarks on cultured ». simply
domestic women, the education of girls, &., are somewhat akin to
those of the man who disapproved of Shakspesre’s habit of using
hackneyed quotations. The three dialogues with which the book
opens, have, in a lesser degree, the same defect as the Diary of an
Ennuyée ; the author’s own experiences are described in the charac-
ter of a fictitious personage ; the same Alda who is the imaginary
writer of the “Characteristics,” and who, in the introduction
thereto, sets forth her views on things in general, and women in
particular to her masculine companion, who is, by the way, too
polite to be husband or brother, too critical for a lover, too familiar
for a friend. This artifice imparts an air of unreality to the book,
the reader does not know how much he is to believe of the fluent
and poetical Alda’s experiences, and is at times half tempted to
consider Dannecker, Retzsch, and Ottilie von Goethe as myths
likewise.

An Irishpoman in Diaguise. 99

Her own book finished, Mrs. Jameson undertook the manage-
ment of the arrangements for the publication in England of
Retzsch’s outline illustrations of Shakespear, Goethe, and Schiller,
translating the text and writing an introduction, her notice of the
artist in her own book having already secured a favourable recep-
tion for his work. It was at this time also that Mrs. Jameson first
met Lady Byron. Her first impression of that enigmatical
woman seems to have been a disagreeable one, but this wore off
with better knowledge, and the friendship between the two was
soon of an intimate and confidential nature. It led to other friend-
ships; notably, to one between Mrs. Jameson and Joanna Baillie
and her sister ; and to an acquaintance, if not a friendship, between.
Lady Byron and Harriet Martineau.

But Mrs. Jameson’s life of work and friendship was soon broken
in upon by letters from Canada. Mr. Jameson, who does not seem
to have particularly appreciated his wife while with her, now
became impatient for the fulfilment of her promise of joining him,
and wrote her letters which, always courteous, often affectionate,
and sometimes even loving, would almost induce the reader to
believe that he was an injured and long-suffering husband, the
victim of his wife’s coldness and neglect. Read in the light
afforded by some of her replies, however, they assume a different
aspect. Mrs. Jameson points out to her husband, that notwith-
standing the expression of vague hopes and wishes for her company,
he has given her no definite directions as to the steps she was to
take towards joining him; no indications of what her life in
Canada was likely to be; no advice concerning outfit, or prepara-
tions for the journey. She even declares that she has received but
two letters from him in the course of a year and a half, and dis-
proves a somewhat similar accusation brought by himagainstherself.
Altogether it would seem as though Mr. Jameson, while anxious.
to retain his hold upon his wife, and control over her movements,
had no real wish for her presence or companionship. He seems to
have been a vain, egotistical man, who could have lived in harmony
only with a woman simple enough to believe in him implicitly, or
artful enough to pretend to do so. Mrs. Jameson was neither;
she possessed opinions and individuality of her own, and was far
too honest and straightforward to disguise them. Possessed of too
much self-command to quarrel, her good sense still showed her
that each would be happier apart. She was willing, however, to
make any effort in her power to establish things on a more satis-
factory footing, and she assures her husband in every letter, that

Vow. x11, No. 140.

160 Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy.

she only waits some decided expression of his wishes to make im-
mediate arrangements for leaving England. Pending the negotia-
tions with her husband, Mrs. Jameson returned to Germany,
remaining some months at Weimar, with her friend Madame von
Goethe, who nursed her through an illness partly brought on by
anxiety concerning her future life. The correspondence with her
husband having at length come to a satisfactory termination, Mrs.
Jameson sailed for America in September, 1836.

DR. KAVANAGH ON CATHOLIC STUDENTS OF
PHILOSOPHY.*

N the pamphlet before us Dr. Kavanagh has raised to the
dignity of philosophic discussion a question which before his
intervention had been discussed from a less elevated standpoint. A
paper on metaphysics, set for the recent Degree Examination of the
Royal University, had called forth the complaint that in this
matter the students of Catholic colleges had been placed at a dis-
advantage. It was contended that the questions set, in subject
matter, as in terminology, were unfamiliar to the Catholic students,
who, it was assumed, had been prepared for examination by a study
of one or other of the Latin Jnstitutiones or Elementa, of the kind
in use in many Catholic colleges. The questions, at first sight,
seemed to range beyond the subjects treated in their class-books,
to require a knowledge of theories not discussed among the
objections there refuted, and furthermore employed the language
current in the philosophic literature of these countries and these
times, rather than the formule of another age and another tongue.
All this, it was argued, placed the Catholic student in an un-
favourable position for securing marks: and as securing marks is
a prime object of philosophic training, there had in all this been
at once an injustice and a mistake.
Dr. Kavanagh is not much concerned at the loss of the marks.

© The Study of Mental Philosophy by Catholic Students in the Royal
University of Ireland, by the Very Rev. James B. Kavanagh, D.D., P.P.,
Kildare, Senator of the Royal University of Ireland, Dublin: Browne and
Nolan, 1885,

Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy. 101

What he is concerned to make clear is that the standard of know-
ledge which this examination supposed is one which the Catholic
student may be required to reach with profit to his education in
philosephy, and without danger to his Faith.

“The advantage or disadvantage to classes of students is a very minor
question, Whether a particular paper may give an advantage to Catholic or
non-Catholic students is so insignificant that it scarcely merita reference in this
important controversy. The real question and the question which I am discuse-
ing is, what shall be the standard and the character of philosophic teaching in
the schools and colleges of Ireland ?"—p. 31.

In answering the question which he has thus set himself, Dr.
Kavanagh is guided at once by the plain dictates of practical
common sense, and by the authoritative teaching of the Holy See.
‘The teaching and study of philosophy may be viewed as a means
and a method of mental development or as a preparation for the
practical duties and the prospective dangers of the life the student
is to live. In either case, it would seem, the right study of philo-
sophy requires a knowledge jof the theories that have exercised the
minds of highest philosophic repute in recent times. It is a
familiar fact to students of philosophic science that the study of
systems rival to their own is indispensable if they would under-
stand the full bearings, and even the distinct character, of their
own theories. The great masters of philosophy have always insisted.
upon this. Their method of exposition has always been to make
taeir own views distinctly intelligible by setting them in contrast
with the doctrines to which they were opposed. Error is no doubt
an evil in itself. But in this at least it can be turned to useful
purpose: set in contrast with the truth, it serves to bring out in
a higher definiteness and distinctness the truth it is adverse to.
No philosopher can afford to neglect the thoughts of other minds
on the subjects which engage his own. If he can learn much
from them where they have thought aright, he can learn much from
them where they have thought awry. The great thoughts of great
minds will always be to the earnest thinker either a guide or a
warning. In either event they indicate the path he is seeking to
follow. He is a competent philosopher in proportion as these
landmarks are? available to him ; in proportion as he has mastered
opposing views which have been held on the problems occupying
his mind, and has learned to discriminate the true from the false.

The study of philosophy, in this broad sense, becomes more a
matter of necessity if we consider this study as a preparation [for
the after-life of the student. lí his philosophy is to help him in

102 Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy.

the intellectual difficulties he must encounter in his intercourse
with the world, he must so study it as to become familiar with
these difficulties betimes, and familiar too with a competent solution
of them. It is not enough that he should possess the principles
which, when skilfully applied, will furnish such a solution. Few
men have the time and the patience, even if they had the ability,
to apply approved general principles to the solution of entangled
concrete problems. The work must be done for them. They can
understand it without effort when it is adequately done by others,
but it is useless to expect that they will do it for themselves. If
we do not wish them to become a prey to the sophistries of error,
‘we must show them that the teachings of error which they are sure
to encounter are merely sophistries. When they have understood
this, they are safe. They may be trusted to pass unharmed through
the danger: without this instruction, no mere possession of sound
general principles will guarantee them against the specious theories
which will be forced upon them by minds more acute and more
highly cultured than their own. To make the study of philosophy
of practical use to the ordinary student it must deal largely with
the questions discussed by thinkers of influence in the student's
own day, it must make him familiar with the views propounded by
those thinkers, with the language in which those views are expressed
and lastly with the true and the false in those teachings, which he
will be forced to discuss and of which he must become either the
partisan or the opponent.

“If the Oatholic student,” writes Dr. Kavanagh, “does not hear modern
philosophic errore discussed by his Professor in the class-room, he is sure to hear
them subsequently in the world, and the ignorant Catholic, who hears them for
the first time in society, is exposed to much greater peril than the educated
Catholic who is familiar with them, and has heard them explained and refuted
by his Professor during his academic career.""—p. 12.

Dr. Kavanagh is of opinion that the principles of true philo-
sophy should, in the instruction given in our University classes
be adapted to meet the needs of our own time. He holds strongly
to the necessity of an adequate exposition of the genuine principles
of the old scholastic philosophy, but he would have these principles
applied to the solution of the questions which occupy the attention
of contemporary thinkers. He would have the teachers of this
philosophy set the theories they are expounding in distinct and
explicit contrast with the errors prevalent in this age and in these
countries. In this, we are of opinion, he is requiring no more than
he has a right to demand. If education in philosophy is to be of
practical use at all it must aim at effecting this. To do less than

Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy. 103

this, to confine our students to the expositions of scholastic philo-
eophy which deal only with extinct schools of error, would be to
train them for a world that has passed, to send them armed with
a battle-axe or a sling into a warfare where Krupp guns and long-
range rifles are the weapons in use.

“ Shall Catholic teaching be confined exclusively to Scholastic Philosophy in
ite ancient forms, or shall professors of Philosophy in Catholic colleges be
required to expand and develop the principles of St. Thomas, and apply them to
the wants of modern philosophic discussion? Shall we ignore the living present
and direct Catholic teaching in philosophy exclusively to the dead past ? Bhall
we teach our students to refute errors which are unheard-of for centuries except
in echolastic disputations, and ignore errors which are in active operation
around us, and are eating into the very vitals of Christian faith and of Christian
moral teaching? "—p. 9.

Dr. Kavanagh’s purpose throughout his pamphlet is to answer
these questions in the negative, and to give sufficient reasons for
this anewer. He finds that in the course he recommends he is not
only in accord with the dictates of practical sound sense, but he is
furthermore in accord with the traditional methods of Christian
and Catholic teaching. He points out that the great leaders of
what we may term Christian speculation have dealt, in detailed
criticism, on the rival doctrines propounded in their own day. He
recalls the fact that the great writings of the great doctors of the
Church are mainly controversial, that is, are taken up with the
exposition and criticism of the doctrines opposed to their own.

“ It was not thus St. Thomas and the Great Masters of Ohristian Philosophy
acted. They did not ignore the errors of their own day, and direct their atten=
tion and their teaching exclusively to errors that were antiquated and forgotten.
What they did in their own day we may fairly assume they would do if they
lived at the present time; but in their own day they grappled with and refuted
every error then prevalent, they wrested from the unbelievers the principles
of science, and used them in the interests of tru:h. They did not leave the
field of higher culture in philosophy and acience to the enemies of the Church,
but made both philosophy and science the handmaids of religion.”—

‘What has thus been the practice of the master-minds of the
Christian schools Dr. Kavanagh finds urged upon the teachers
und students of philosophy by the authority of the Holy See. The
present Pope has done much to encourage the study of sound
philosophy, and he has been at the pains to indicate clearly the
lines on which he would have it studied. Dr. Kavanagh finds
himself strongly supported in the position he has taken up by the
pronouncement of his Holiness. The philosophy of St. Thomas
Aquinas is the philosophy which Leo XIII. recommends to the
earnest study of the Catholic student. But he requires that this

104 Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy.

philosophy shall be studied with a view to the needs of the
student’s own time and circumstances, that it shall be studied so
as to draw out of the vast resources it offers the solution of
present difficulties and the antidote to present errors. This is his
summary of the teaching of the Encyclical, terni Patris :—

“The study of philosophy, as enjoined by the Pope, and formulated by those
who have most ably seconded his views, is not a mere rehearsal of the formule
of the schools, not an empty combating of errors which have been dead for
centuries and which nobody thinks of reviving. What the Holy Father demands
from the teachers and the students who look to him for guidance is, that they
shall make scholastic philosophy a living reality, the antagonist of existing
errors, and potent for present good. He requires that its principles shall be
maintained in their integrity, but that they will receive an exposition which
shall refute error in its modern forms, and give the Catholic student fixed views
on the great problems raised by recent philosophical speculation.”—p. 18.

Dr. Kavanagh sees but one difficulty in the way. Is it nota
dangerous thing to make our Catholic students familiar with false
teaching? May it not happen that they may be ensnared by the
fallacies they are invited to refute? How shall they be guarded
against this effect on themselves of the writings in which error is
seductively expounded ?

To these questions he replies, that the difficulty exists only
when we suppose the student’s knowledge of these dangerous
errors to be attained through a personal study of the works in
which they are set forth. But this method he would not admit :
it is wholly against the traditions of the Christian schools, and it
is wholly unnecessary if philosophy is competently taught.

“Tt was not the method of Suarez, Bellarmine, and other great exponents of
Christian Philosophy and Theology to put the writings of the false teachers of
their time into the hands of their pupils, and to invite them to discover for
themselves the points of divergence from truth. And yet, what error of their
time did these masters of Christian science fail to make their students acquainted
with? What novelty in thought or language affecting Christian teaching did
they fail to bring under the notice of those whom they instructed? To what
compass would the writings of Suarez, or Bellarmine, or even of the great
master St, Thomas be reduced, i the exposition of the teaching of contempo-
rary errors were eliminated? Did anyone, I wonder, ever object to these great
masters of Catholic Theology, that when they propounded to their disciples for
refutation the pernicious teachings of contemporary heretics, they exposed those
disciples to the temptation of seeking fuller knowledge in the writings of the
heretics themselves P "—p. 25,

It is not to books that Dr. Kavanagh recommends students to
look for the philosophic knowledge which will avail at the present
day. It is out of the question that in the two years allotted by
the University for the study of mental and moral science, the

Dr. Kavanagh on Catholic Students of Philosophy. 105

student could secure anything like a useful knowledge of the eut-
jects assigned, by a study of the literature in which they are
treated. An ill-assorted mass of facts, and a confusing medley of
conflicting opinions would probably be the net outcome of his
labours. It is only under skilful teaching that he can hope to
realize what is expected from him. It is only under the guidance
of a master to whom the theories of conflicting schools are familiar,
and who knows how to set them in orderly arrangement, with
brief but adequate criticism, that he can hope to make practically
profitable his two years’ study of the points indicated in the Uni-
versity Calendar.

When he has time for reading, he will find, as Dr. Kavanagh
tells him, that there is an abundant Catholic literature in German,
French, Italian, and Latin, treating the questions of philosophy
on the lines required by the pamphlet we are noticing. Moigno,
Bonniot, Carbonelle, Vigoureux, Blanc, Pesch Stéckl, Gutberlet,
San Severino, Salis, Liberatore, the periodicals of the Catholic
men of literature and science in ‘Belgium, France, Germany,
and Italy, will supply men with ample knowledge on the points
it most concerns him to be acquainted with. But these will be
useful for personal study chiefly when his student’s career is
finished. Preparing for examination he had better make ac-
quaintance with them through his professor He will thus be
saved much fruitless labour and spared much bewilderment of
mind.

Such, in brief, is the substance of Dr. Kavanagh’s pamphlet.
We cannot look upon it otherwise than as an important contribution
toa very momentous controversy. We take it to be an honest
demand for a high standard of philosophic teaching in the Catholic
colleges of this country. And we are warranted in believing that
for the effort to raise Catholic teaching in Ireland to the highest
efficiency possible, the country and the religion he is serving so
well, will eventually rest his debtors.

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Mr. Burnett is an American lawyer and a convert to the Catholic
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Burnett writes; but when he writes on matters which are usually
associated in our minds with special scientific training, the source
of interest becomes a ground of suspicion. From a gentleman,
whose busy life has bean devoted to pursuits like Mr. Burnett’s,
we should scarcely expect a valuable treatise on philosophy,
anatomy, or mental philosophy; and we should be equally unrea-
sonable to look for one on the Evidences of Christianity. Now
the “ Reasons why we should believe,” &., is a formal treatise on
the Evidences of Christianity ; and it would be worse than flattery
to say that it will prove a valuable additicn to those we already
possess. It gathers together a certain amount of useful knowledge
upon points of present controversy for readers who may not have
means or leisure to go through many books, but it is wanting in
the unity of design, and logical exactness, which are absolutely
necessary for a proper treatment of the subject. What Cano did
for the schools of the sixteenth century must be done by some
master-mind of our own day, before the struggle between faith
and unbelief can be carried on satisfactorily. We are wasting our
time and energies upon useless points of detail— Natural Selec-
tion,” “ Sexual Selection,” “ striped horses,” and the reat ; forget-
ful that while Darwiniam may or may not be true, may or may not
be opposed to the Christian revelation, it is still only one difficulty
and not principal one; and that the cause of orthodoxy must be
fought out on questions of greater consequence.

Even, however, in the execution of the plan adopted, we think
Mr. Burnett has not been altogether fortunate. He proves the
existence of God from design alone. We do not, of course, deny
that the proof may be made convincing ; many able thinkers have

Notes on New Books. 107

held that it is so. But many also hold it to be invalid ; it is open
to more difficulties than any other which could be selected; and by
putting it forward alone, the cause of truth is made to rest appa-
rently upon an argument, which the very defenders of truth are
not agreed amongst themselves upon accepting.

Reference might aleo be made to other points, notably the
passages where Mr. Burnett deals with the genesis of faith, in
which misconception may arise; but it is wholly impossible that
an untrained theologian should avoid obscurity and danger of
misconception in such matters. They are often stumbling blocks
even to men whose best labours have been given to gain clear ideas
of them, and accurate expressions for them.

Another work which comes to us from the Catholic Publication
Society of New York 1s “The History of the Church of God
from the Creation to the Present Day” by the Rev.B. J. Spalding,
a member of a family which has already given two distinguished
prelates to the American hierarchy. ‘The most gifted of these,
Dr. John Lancaster Spalding, Bishop of Peoria, has prefixed a very
short preface to his brother’s work. As this book tells the story
of religion from Adam to Leo XIII. in seven hundred pages,
which large type and numerous excellent illustrations further
curtail, it does not pretend to be more than a popular primer of
ecclesiastical history. It fulfils its purpose well. The headings
of the well-arranged paragraphs, the questions which run along
the foot of every page, and several other mechanical details,
increase greatly the practical usefulness of Dr. Spalding’s work.

Prosaic as the world is becoming, or as prosy old folk, judging
from themselves, imagine it is becoming, there is still plenty of
poetry in the human heart. The amount of verse that is printed
every day may not be a proof of the truth of this remark which
has, however, been suggested by three poetical volumes sent to us
this month for review. We put first the one in which our readers
will feel themselves less personally interested. Lady Catharine
Petre’s “ Hymns and Verses” are contained in a handsome volume,
to which the publishers, Messrs Burns & Oates, have affixed no
date, but which can only have been completed immediately before
her recent sudden death. We claim her as an Irishwoman, as she
was the daughter of the late Earl of Wicklow. She was born in
the year 1880; and yet several of the earlier pieces are dated
“1845.” The first division of the book contains the poems
“written before conversion,” the second those “ written after
conversion.” Even those in the former division show the piety

108 Notes on New Books.

of this holy and gifted soul ; but the whole collection is an ascend-
ing climax, ending in the finest of all, “The Son of a King for
Me!”

The second new volume of poetry is “ Gathered Leaflets,” by
Helena Callanan, townswoman, but, we believe, not a relative of
the author of “Gougane Barra.” It is published by Purcell &
Company of Cork, and bears the municipal arms of Cork on the
cover. We hope it was printed also at Cork, for it is very well
printed. Miss Callanan is the Frances Brown of the South.
This title will probably convey no meaning to most of our readers,
for whatever reputation the Blind Poetess of Donegal once

seems to have faded out. We intend to tell her story
soon; but then there are so many of those intentions. In the few
words of prose with which the Cork poetess begins her volume,
she makes no allusion to the pathetic circumstance to which we
have ventured to refer, except by dating the dedication from the
Cork Asylum for the Blind; and there is nothing but brightness
and cheerfulness and sweet music in the thirty-three poems which
she has gathered into this dainty little volume. The personal feel-
ing that runs through many of them will make them more pleasing
even to strangers. One of the most graceful of these is “Her
First Rose;” and our other favourites are “Summer,” “ Life
and Death,” “ May in the City,” ' An American Letter,” “The
Shamrock in Florence” (very original metre), and “ The Gift of
Kindness,” though there is a hitch in the second line.

The office of The Nation newspaper has issued, under the title
of ‘Emerald Gems,” the first of a series of annual anthologies
gathered from the poems contributed recently to the pages of that
journal. Such a collection with “T.D.8.” omitted renders an allu-
sion to the Prince of Denmark inevitable. Where is that song
which chorused so sweetly about “ no land like Ireland anywhere at
allP” And where is the requiem for the Loyal Minority who had
the greatest possible respect for authority “ when they had every-
thing all their own way?” We trust, however, that this omission
portends pretty soon a new series of “Green Leaves.” There are
forty-three contributors to this excellent sixpenceworth (why don’t
all books bear their prices plainly stated in front?) Except
“Fanny Forrester” and “ E. Owens Blackburne” the real names
of all are given. This we think desirable. If a piece pleases us,
we like to thank something more definite than initials or pseudo-
nyms; but in “Emerald Gems” the addresses of the writers|are
generally added. Miss Una Taylor—whom we have before intro-

Notes on New Books. 109

duced to our readers as the daughter of the veteran English poet Sir
Henry Taylor—is represented here by a very fine poem“ In Exile,”
and Miss Katharine Tynan’s “ Dream ” is an exquisite sample of
her rich poetic diction. We prefer Miss Penelope Harnett’s “By
the Sea” to the poems which have been selected for her. Among
names unknown to us till now, we think there is a good deal of
sweetness and truthfulness of tone in the poems of Miss Mary Kil-
gallen and Francis Fahy. The two innocent love-songs of Eugene
Daly and James Monaghan should, we think, take a good place if
the contents of this volume were classified according to merit—
woe betide the critic who would dare so perilous an enterprise.
Mr. Richard Robinson’s “ Questionings’”’ and Mr. William Boyle’s
“Zig and Zag” seem the cleverest of the political pieces, except
perhaps Mr. Daniel Crilly’s “ No ;” but we prefer to link this name
of morethan promise with “A Resolve” which we counsel him to keep.

A harsh transition brings us next to the twelfth yearly issue of
“Eason’s Almanac for Ireland” full of interesting and accurate
information on an immense number of practical subjects. The
Almanac proper occupies over thirty out of two hundred pages ;
yet it embodies the best collection of Irish dates we know of, and
one could make an interesting article out of this item. This book
is capital value for a shilling. It may add some emphasis to our
good opinion of Mr. 8. A. Frost’s book “ How to Write a Compo-
sition” (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son) if we confess that we have
let it lie on our table unopened through the prejudice we felt
against it. But a slight study of the book has given us a high
idea of its merit, for it certainly justifies its title page where it is
said to contain ‘ Original Skeleton compositions on a great varicty
of subjects, with directions for dividing each into its appropriate
heads, and for arranging the divisions in their natural order.” Mr.
Frost has shown great judgment in his selection of so many
interesting and suggestive subjects of so many different kinds ;
and with regard to each of them he maps out a thorough method
of treatment with full and substantial matter on each division of
the subject. Even with the book under his eye the schoolboy
would be very usefully exercised in clothing the skeletons with
flesh, in working up these hints into a regular essay. Indeed, one
or two out of many divisions given here under each head, will
generally afford abundant matter for a good composition.

We announced before, the publication of the forty-seventh
volume of the Quarterly Series, edited by Father Coleridge—
namely, the Life of Mgr. De Ségur the “ Blind Apostle” of

10 To Nora in Heaven,

Paris, whom Father Coleridge calls “one of the noblest souls of
our time.” He showed in a different sphere the same heroic energy
in spite of the same grievous affliction which excited so much
admiration for the late Mr. Henry Fawcett, and which has inspired
unusually good elegiac sonnets since his death.

Our readers, on referring back to page 340 of our eighth
yearly volume, will find a brief sketch of a very gifted, holy, and
interesting Italian lady, Rosa Ferrucci, who was in some degree
the Eugenie de Guérin of Italy. ‘hey will be glad to havea
fuller account of her, translated from the French of Father
Perreyve, and published at the busy press of the Ave Maria of
Notre Dame, Indiana. More readable printing could not be
desired.

We have already, we think, called attention to the very service-
able collection of hymns, with music compiled by the Rev. Joseph
Teeks, under the title of “St. George’s Hymn-tune Book ” (Burns
& Oates).

TO NORA IN HEAVEN.
(Died, December 3rd, 1884.)
ors glory shining on thy sweet child-face,
Heaven's radiance beaming on thy golden hair,
Should ev'ry thought of this poor earth efface—
‘Happy, supremely bleet, as thou art there,
‘Where nover enters pain, nor grief, nor care.

But atill thy glorious and angelic soul
Must look from heaven on those who loved thee so,
And thy fond prayers will lead unto the goal
‘Which thou so soon hast reached—by earthly woo
And grief untouched—thoee thou hast left below.

Nora, sweet Nora! bright and pure whilst here,

Ten thousand times more bright and pure abore—
Pray to thy Saviour for thy parents dear,

‘Who tried their best by fondest care and love

To smooth the earthly path of their meek, tender dove.
Pray unto Him that they may see again,—

In that blest land where dear ones ne’er shall part,
Where joy supreme and purest love shall reign—

‘Their aweet saint-child, and press her to their heart,

Resting for aye with thee, where thou now art,

H.J.G.

( iu)

MARCELLA GRACE.

BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

Avruon or “‘ uesTxn’s RistoRy,” “THR WICKRD WOODS OF TOBEREEYTL,” “ ELDEROOWAN,”
“THY WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” 4TO., ETC.

CHAPTER V.
AN IRISH CINDERELLA.

ALL Marcella’s expectations were broken and scattered by such a
greeting. The blood rushed to her face and fled away again instantly
as she stammered :

“TI do not understand. My father told me something, but I
have not been able to believe it.”

“But you must believe it, my dear. You are the only relative
T have left in the world, and I had not a suspicion of your existence
till I saw you standing here the first day you came, and my breath
was taken from me by your likeness to that portrait. You were
looking up at it

“I remember; it made me think of my mother,” said the girl,
“though I wondered why, for I do not recollect ever seeing her.”

“T knew it could not be a chance resemblance, and it set me
thinking and inquiring. The thing was easy enough to trace once
the question was started; and now you are going to be my own
child; and I have been so lonely. I am ceasing to care for the
world, and I want a daughter, Marcella—it was my sister's name,
her name whose face you have got. And now take off your bon-
net and come with me, my child.”

Marcella had listened in glad amazement. All the wild dreams
ofa future lifted above the sordid level upon which she had lived—
dreams which she had kept aloof as enemies that could only rob
her of what little contentment she possessed—rushed upon her now
as friends claiming to be recognised. The moderate-expectations
she had dwelt upon during the last few hours were forgotten ; a
brilliant reality shone into her eyes and blinded her. She suddenly
burst into tears.

“I do not wonder,” exclaimed the old lady, wiping her own
eyes. “It has been too great a surprise. But I could not keep

the secret any longer. I never could break the news of anything
Vow. xut., No 141. March, 1885.

112 Marcella Grace.

to anyone in my life. And, besides, I was so impatient to take
possession of you. Do not cry, my darling. You shall never
return to that nasty hole any more.”

Maroella stilled her sobs and tried to speak.

“ My father ——” she began.

“Oh, my dear, I will arrange with him. I have told him my
intentions, and ‘no doubt he will be glad to agree with them, once
you are out of his hands. You have only to assert yourself a
little—you are twenty-one, you have told me—and you will see
that everything will come right.”

Marcella had by this time overcome her agitation and regained
her presence of mind.

“You are very good,” she said, gratefully ; “TI cannot find
words to thank you for your goodness. But I can never consent
“to abandon my father in his old age.”

“My dear, you need not use such terrible words. You shal?
not be asked to abandon him. We will make him as comfortable
as he can be, and you shall go to see him as often as it is
practicable. Of course you must feel, —’

“TI do feel,” said Marcella, gently, “ I feel it all, and that is
why I will not desert him He is old and failing in health, and
he has loved me and cherished me all my life. I must be his nurse,
his child, his hands, eyes, and staff as long as God leaves him to
me. And so, dear friend, if instead of giving me all these brilliant
things you offer, if you would merely help me to get work, put me
in a way of being able to support him, I will bless you, and he will
bless you every day we have to live.”

“T don’t know that,” said Mrs. O’Kelly, beginning to get
angry. “I don’t at all know that. I am sure the old gentleman
will not be so easily satisfied.”

“You mistake him, madam. He would never consent to part
with me.”

Then he is a fool,” said Mrs. O'Kelly, “ and I am sorely dis-
appointed in you both! In that case I suppose you must be
allowed to return to him.”

And though the interview was prolonged considerably after
this difficult point in the conversation had been reached, no better
understanding was arrived at, and Marcella returned to the Liber-
ties with a much heavier heart than that with which she had left
it, Mrs. O’Kelly having parted with her in an ecstasy of displeasure.

On arriving home, however, strong in her consciousness that
she had been true to her father and obeyed his warning to suffer

Marcella Grace. 118

no arrangement to be made that would part him from his daughter,
she met with a very different reception from that which she had
fairly earned, and had a right to expect. Old Grace’s anger at
hearing that she had allowed their friend to quarrel with her was
harder to bear than Mrs. O’Kelly’s feverish disappointment.

He scolded her well for not exerting herself to make an advan-
tageous bargain with the old lady. He had trusted her to do the
business, believed in her willingness to be of use to him, placed all
his affairs in her hands. He was only checked by the sight of
Marcella’s fast-flowing tears.

“Oh, father!” she said, bitterly, “do not say that you would
have sold me to her if she had only paid you well enough ! ”

She stretched out her two young hands imploringly as she cried
to him, and the soft corner in his heart was reached.

“I did not mean rightly that, my girl,” he said, “ only that
we oughtn’t to have quarrelled with her. But let's say no more
about it. I don’t know but that I might die if I couldn’t see your
darlin’ face no more!”

And Marcella was comforted; and having prayed to God to
send her work from some quarter that she might nourish this
loving father in his declining days, she slept soundly upon her
BSOrTOWS.

But Mrs. O'Kelly was not so easily comforted. For many
weeks she had so lived on the certainty of having Marcella for her
own that she could not reconcile herself to disappointment. She
blamed herself for her hasty temper, acknowledged that she had
been unreasonable, and admitted that the girl’s determination not
to give her father up only proved the sterling qualities of her
heart. Before another day had passed, she was more in love with
Marcella than ever, and busy with schemes for ensnaring the girl
into her keeping. She must manage to do it without alarming her
filial devotion. She must gradually wean her from that dreadful
old man, who at all cost must be kept down, concealed in the
shadows of his original obscurity. At last she hit upon a plan
which she thought must be successful : and it proved to be so.

She made another pilgrimage to the Liberties, the result of
which was that the weaver permitted his daughter to go on a visit
to Mrs. O’Kelly at Merrion-square. Grace was well pleased at the
arrangement, considering that once his daughter had gained a
footing in the old lady’s home and heart he might ultimately hope
to make his own terms. Mrs. O’Kelly was satisfied, thinking that
Marcella, having tasted the sweets of young ladyhood, (having been

114 Marcella Grace.

dressed, admired, accustomed to drawing-room life, would be found
very amenable to reason, through her fear of being thrown back into
poverty and squalor. As for Marcella herself, seeing that both
father and friend were content, she felt free to give herself up to
her young enjoyment of the hour, and to live like the heroine of
a fairy romance.

Not to shock the proprieties of any who might chance to look
on in her home at the transformation of the weaver’s girl into
Mrs. O'Kelly’s niece, as she called her (fondly imagining that the
girl might have been the daughter of that sister of hers whose
portrait she resembled, and whose name she borel, the lady was
prudent in her arrangement of the affair. She left home for a
few days, only, however, to stay at a hotel not far away, where
Marcella met her and was transformed. No one could have
imagined that the girl in sordid clothing who passed up the stair-
case of the hotel, and whom nobody could have sworn to have seen
pass down again, had anyone thought about so insignificant a
matter, was one and the same with the elegant and beautiful
young lady who was found seated with Mrs. O'Kelly when the
waiter served her lunch. After a few days’ shopping, walking
about the fashionable thoroughfares, and living at the hotel which
seemed to the girl from the Liberties a palace of splendours, the
two ladies were met one day at Westland-row railway station by
Mrs. O’Kelly's carriage, and were conducted home in state to
Merrion-square.

It wasimmediately known, and much talked of in her circle,
that Mrs. O’Kelly had received on a visit a young relative who had
been living abroad, and, having lost her parents and finished her
education, was just in such an interesting position as to excite’the
old lady’s sympathies. She had gone to London to meet the girl
on her way from Paris, and was making as much fuss about her as
if she had been her actual child.

On Mrs. O’Kelly’s next reception day her drawing-rooms were
crowded with friends and acquaintances curious to behold Marcella,
who sat making tea in a pretty close-fitting dress of dull crimeon
cloth which set off her dark beauty to advantage. Miss O'Flaherty
was the first to arrive and the last to take her leave, and made many
bold attempts to cross-question the suddenly discovered niece as to
her antecedents, all of which attacks, however, Mrs. O’Kelly
adroitly foiled, enjoying intensely the discomfiture of her enemy.

As for Marcella herself, she felt too timid in her new position
to enter into prolonged conversation with anyone, and took refuge

Harcella Grace. . 115

‘in her task of tea-making, answering in few words when she was
“spoken to, and referring everything to her patroness. Yet her
natural self-possession gave her so well-bred an air that nobody
-could call her shy. After the last visitor had departed, Mrs.
O’Kelly congratulated her on the success of her first appearance
in society.

“You must gain more confidence in yourself, Marcella. You
have less brogue than Julia O'Flaherty, and there was not a woman
here to-day who can cross a floor as well as you doit. Just go
-out of the room, my dear, and come in again and up to my chair.
You may laugh if you please, but it is a pretty art to move about
a room with grace. It comes to you naturally, of course, with
_your nicely-turned O'Kelly ancles and your graceful O'Kelly arms.
Now, Julia O’Flaherty’s feet are like the feet of a clothes-horse.”

The old lady lay back complacently in her chair and stroked
Marcella’s hands, which she had of late been bathing with per-
fumes and unguents to remove the traces of toil from the shapely
fingers. And she went on, unfolding her ideas and intentions.

“I have been asked several times to-day whether I did not
intend presenting you at the drawing-room, but I have made up
my mind that it would not do, as you have not yet consented to
be altogether my daughter, Marcella. It would not be proper to
present a girl to His Excellency at the Castle who would after-
wards return to live in the Liberties, my darling. And yet you must
see a little life while you are with me. I said to the inquisitive
people that, though you were rather young to be presented, I did
not know but that I might take you to the St. Patrick’s Ball—just
to look on. You shall have a pretty dress, and you will see the
dancing, which will be new to you. And after that we shall per-
haps have a little dance ourselves.”

Marcella expressed her delight at the prospect of so much
pleasure, and thought of the long-past Patrick’s Ball at which her
mother had gaily danced, little dreaming of the dreary fate in
store for her. How strange was life! Certainly but one month
ago, if anyone had told her that she, Marcella, should be going to a
Patrick’s Ball she would have taken the prophet for a lunatic.

And yet she was certainly going to the ball. A pretty dress
was ordered, and Mrs. O'Kelly displayed to her the pearl ornaments
which she herself had not worn for long, and which she believed
Julia O'Flaherty already counted as her own. “ But I am not
sure that she shall have them,” said the old lady; “not if some
people behave themselves nicely. They exactly suit aldebitante

116 Marcella Grace.

and it is a long time since poor Julia went to her first ball. They
will go charmingly with this fleecy white dress of yours, which
makes you look as if clothed in snow.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE PATRICK’s BALL.

Tue eventful night arrived and Mrs. O'Kelly, wearing her tabinet
train, and followed by Marcella, white and fresh as a dewdrop in
her glistening silk and pearls, set out in the O'Kelly brougham for
Dublin Castle. The old Castle-yard, witness of many a strange
scene in Ireland's history, was alive with carriages, cabs, and
all manner of vehicles down to the jaunting-car which brought
young men in their dancing-pumps, who had fallen back on the
friendly jarvey, finding cabs were scarce—a scarcity not to be
wondered at, seeing that in Dublin carriages are less plentiful
than hack conveyances.

While they awaited their turn to be set down, Mrs. O'Kelly
related anecdotes of the ancient splendours of Dublin Castle, not
derived from books, for she was no great reader, so much as from
memory of what had been related to her by her mother. Abouta
hundred years ago or so it might have been truly said that there
were gay doings at Dublin Castle, when a legion of the nobility
inhabited the magnificent old houses in and about the city, now
either mouldering to decay, rifled of as much of their carvings
and decorations as can be carried off, or turned into noble museums
public libraries, and asylums for the sick and unfortunate, where ex-
quisitely adorned ceilings spread rich canopies over the hospital-
bed of pain, while students ascend daily the royal staircases at the
top of which dukes in former days received their guests.

Mrs. O’Kelly and her charge were long in making their way
up the noble staircase that leads to St. Patrick’s Hall; for the
Patrick's Ball (held once a year on St. Patrick's Day) is sure to be
@ crowded one, being the only entertainment given within the
Castle walls to which those persons can obtain invitations who
have not already been formally presented to Vice-Royalty.

“There is Julia O'Flaherty standing at the top of the stairs
talking to Bryan Kilmartin!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Kelly, in a low
tone, more to herself than to Marcella, as they stood wedged in a
corner of the lower landing and looking upwards. “ Why does

Harcella Grace. 117

the girl wear pink with that beet-root colour in her cheeks? How

much she has got to say to Bryan, though she does sneer so at hie

politics! Dear me, if people would only think it their duty to

keep moving on! Why does she not get into the ball-roomP She’
will dance all night, if she can get anyone to dance with her, and

she knows he never dances——”

Here a movement in the ascending clouds of silk, and tulle,
and velvet, a stir which set jewels flashing and drew forth sighs of
relief from the impatient and little notes of low laughter from the
joyous and sweet-tempered, swept Marcella and her chaperon some
steps nearer to the landing which was the goal of their desires,
and: Marcella was able to see Julia O'Flaherty and the gentleman
to whom she was talking. He had his back to the staircase now ;
but something in the turn of the head was strangely familiar to
Marcella. She held her breath for a moment, till the man, happen-
ing to turn, glanced down the stair and looked her right in the
face. Then she saw that the gentleman whom Mrs. O'Kelly called
Bryan Kilmartin was the hero of her midnight adventure, the
man whom she had sheltered from pursuit of the police, who had
given her the ring, and whom she had last seen reading the pro-
clamation of reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetra-
tor of the murder which had been committed on that eventful
night.

He looked her straight in the face as she ascended, and his glance
lingered on her with such an expression of interest that she thought
herself recognised, in spite of the change in her condition and
apparel. Would he speak to her she asked herself rapidly. What
would he say to her? Would he allude to the secret he and she
shared between them? Another movement of the crowd now
carried them up to the landing, and she stood by his side.

“Mrs. O'Kelly, will you not speak to me?” said the voice
Marcella remembered well. ‘ What have I done that I should be
cut dead P”

“ Oh, is that you, Bryan? Who would expect to meet a per-
son of your politics within the castle walls, or such a non-fre-
quenter of dances at a Patrick's Ball. It is so long since I have seen
you in evening dress that I scarcely recognised you.”

Bryan Kilmartin smiled an amused smile that became him well.
The grave, stern face that had confronted Marcella in the moulder-
ing room of the old house in Weaver’s-square vanished, and for a
moment she felt that she did not know this man.

“You see even a vagabond like me sometimes wants to get a

118 Harcella Grace.

peep at respectable people,” he said. ‘‘ Miss O'Flaherty has been
kindly telling me who the people are who have outgrown me.”
Then he added in a lower tone, “ I hope you will overlook my sins
and shortcomings so far as to introduce me to your niece.”

“She is not my niece, and I don’t know about introducing you
at present. She is coming with me now to walk round the rooms.
Later in the evening I will think about it, unless I hear some bad
stories of you in the meantime.”

And passing him by with her chin elevated, the old lady swept
on into the ballroom, followed by Marcella.

“She is undeniably handsome,” said Miss O'Flaherty, looking
after the girl ; “but there is nothing in her. She is the most silent
person I ever met. Has lived abroad, and has noi a word to tell
about any of the places she has seen.”

Shortly afterwards Bryan Kilmartin, having left Miss O’Fla-
herty happy in the company of a wealthy unmarried colonel, moved
into the ball-room and looked about eagerly for another glimpse of
Marcella. She was already in the centre of a little cluster of admirers.
Her plea that she could not dance did not deprive her of their atten-
tions. The appearance of a new face, and such a new face, had
already made a sensation in a society where everyone knows every-
one else, sometimes a little too well, and the freshest beauties are
tired of all too soon.

Kilmartin could not account for the peculiar effect which the
sight of that particular countenance had wrought on him. The
beautiful serious intelligence of the wide gray eyes struck him as
something familiar. Where could he have seen her before P They
said she had lived abroad, and he had not been on the Continent
for two or three years. He fancied, too, that her eyes had met his
with a friendly expression, that she looked as if she wished to
speak tohim. No; it must be only that that interested, “asking”
expression of the eyes was natural to her. He never could have
seen her before to-night.

Nothing in her! Certainly her appearance must be a cheat if
that were a just judgment. Silent she might be through unaccus-
tomedness to the subjects of conversation which occupied the
chatterers around her ; but he felt a singular desire to speak to her.
There was a particular quality of voice, a soft rich note recurring,
and giving to simple words a sort of pathetic sweetness which
somehow, he felt sure, went with the expression of those brows and
lips. Where he had heard such a voice he did not know, but the
tones of it came to his imagination as he looked at her face. Could

Marcella Grace. 1lg

he have dreamed of this woman long ago, and only remembered
the dream on beholding her? Nonsense! Or were these the’
symptoms of love at first sight? Equally absurd! For he was-
not a man who was much interested by women asa rule, and
marrying was far from his thoughts.

Later he succeeded in getting introduced to her and in obtain-
ing leave to take her to the refreshment-room for an ice.

“Trust me, I will not talk politics to her,” he said, smiling ;
“and, pariah as I am, I will be careful not to let my shadow fall
on her plate.”

And Marcella found herself moving through the crowd, with
her hand on his arm. So keenly mindful was she of their former
meeting, so full of consciousness of all that had passed between-
them before, that she expected him to say, as soon as they were
alone in the crowd, “ What is the meaning of this? How dol
find you here? I thought you were a poor girl whom I should:
never see again and with whom my secret would on that account
be safe. Can I be sure you will guard it from all these people
among whom it seems you live, asI do? And on which occasion:
have I met you masquerading, as the poverty-stricken girl in the
Liberties, or as the relative of a wealthy gentlewoman?”

But he said nothing of the kind. He only made some remarks
about the antiquity of St. Patrick’s Hall, and concerning the bril-
liant and tragic scenes that had succeeded each other within the
walls of the Castle. He talked to her for some little time, hearing”
only enough of her voice to satisfy him that his expectation had
made no mistake as to its quality, and then having found her an
ice and a chair, he made an effort to relieve his mind of the per-
plexity which had been increasing on him with every glance of her
eyes and every murmur from her lips.

“You have lived abroad, Miss O'Kelly. How do you find our
damp isl:nd after more brilliant climes?”

In an instant Marcella perceived that she had been mistaken:
and that he did not recognise her, and she put herself on her guard.
She would not disconcert him by revealing herself, although she-
could not make any effort to keep up Mrs. O’Kelly’s little fiction
about her foreign rearing. With people like Miss O'Flaherty,
she had suffered that matter to pass, allowing her ignorance of
life abroad to be taken for stupidity, but here she must make bold
to tell the honest truth.

“I have never been out of Dublin, Mr. Kilmartin.. I am orly
a poor relation,” she added, smiling, ‘‘ but you must not tell that

in,

120 Harcella Grace.

I have confessed it. Mrs. O'Kelly has been very kind, and I
believe sho wants to make the best of me. So I am supposed to
have seen a great deal of the world—places on which I have never
laid my eyes. Please don’t tell, for it would vex her.”

“I willnever tell,” he said ; “the rack shall not extort it from
me. But I am surprised at Mrs, O'Kelly for imagining you needed
any such fictitious advantage. And it gives you a difficult part to
play. How do you manage it ?”

“I hold my tongue,” said Marcelle, simply; “I am very
ignorant, but that is one thing I know how to do.”

She emphasised the last words, thinking that in case he should
a little later discover her identity, they might recur to his mind
and give him confidence.

“Tt is an excellent talent,” he said, “ but one that can be too
much cultivated. I am glad you have made an exception in my
case. It strikes me that if you have never been out of Dublin,
Miss O'Kelly, it is possible I may have seen you before. Your
face and even your voice are strangely familiar to me—familiar
although perfectly new. It seems rather as if I had known some
one who bore a wonderful resemblance to you.”

He stopped abruptly, seeing her cheek redden a little and then
turn white. She felt a thrill of alarm lest he should be on the
point of discovering her, for his sake rather than hers, not know-
ing how unpleasantly such discovery might affect him. At the
same moment the paleness of her cheek and the anxious glance of
her eyes made her resemblance more striking to the face that was
haunting him; and suddenly his riddle was read.

“She is like the girl who sheltered me,” he thought;
“singularly like her both in face and voice. Strange I have
noticed before that where a likeness exists between two faces the
same resemblance is found in the voices. She was a noble-looking
girl in the midst of her poor surroundings. Good heavens! it is
the very same face.”

Marcella had risen, and now lifted her eyes to his face. The
same scene—that strange midnight scene, the open closet-door, the
moonlight shining into the crazy old room, the shadow of a crime,
on the threshold, the echo of pursuit at the door, all were present
in both their minds at the moment as she rose and stood before
him, and their eyes met.

“The very girl! Oh, no, I must be losing my senses. I have
startled her with my stare. The sordid gown, the pathetic face,
are safe in the Liberties. This delicate maiden in her whitefrock

Harcella Grace, 121

‘never perhaps heard of such a quarter. But the likeness acoounts
for the curious impression she has made on me.”

Marcella saw the change in his face and knew that so far she
had escaped detection. The power of circumstance was strong to
conceal her identity. She breathed more freely, and a smile came
back to her face.

“I have lived so quietly in Dublin,” she said, “that Iam
perfectly new to everybody here. This is my very first appearance
in society.”

But here Mrs. O’Kelly’s voice was heard at her side.

“I want my young lady. She is not accustomed to late hours
and I am going to take her home. A young woman who is not out
yet, and has still to learn to dance, has no excuse for staying late at
a ball. Good-night, Bryan; I am not going to ask you to come to
see me till you have given up your evil ways, you Fenian! By
the way, I hope you are very proud of the last piece of work of
your party? Poor Gerald Ffont! it was within these very walls
I met him last, and he then said a great deal to me about the
wickedness of the people which I think has been well proved by
his murder.”

A deep shade crossed Kilmartin’s face, but he made no attempt
to reply to the old lady’s reproaches.

“May I see you down stairs and get you your cloak P” he said,
gravely.

“No, thank you, I don’t think youneed. A gentleman is wait-
ing outside to look after us. Come, Marcella!”

Marcella gave her hand frankly to Kilmartin with a friendly
look, and followed her patroness, who lectured her all the way
home about Bryan Kilmartin, rather for the satisfaction of saying
some things that were in her mind against the man than because
she thought it necessary for the girl to hear them.

“I don’t wish you, my dear, to take too much notice of this
Mr. Kilmartin. In fact he is rather a thorn in my side, seeing
that I have known his people always and was once very fond of
himself. He was as nice and promising a lad as ever I knew till
he began to take an interest in the Fenian question. That is a
good many years ago now, for Bryan is thirty years of age ; but
a University training at Cambridge, and subsequent experiences
have not, evidently, trained the sympathy with Fenianism out of
him. He has lately been siding with the low malcontents in the
country in a manner which has turned all my affection for him
to bitterness. How his poor mother bears it I am sure I do not

122 Marcella Grace.

know, for I seldom see her now, as she never shows her face in
society, being an invalid, doubtless in consequence of the wrong-
hheadedness of her son. What brought him to the ball to-night I
cannot think, as he has quite dropped out of society through his:
extraordinary proclivities. And such a promising young man as
that was, full of brave aspirations and noble ideas on every sub-
ject, the sort of young man who would have gone to battle to
free slaves, or would have kept that bridge long ago like the three
what-do-ye-call-thems in the history of Greece—would have leda
forlorn hope anywhere if you only gave him a good enough cause.
And now to have mixed himself up with low people, to have reduced
his rents so far as to cast reproach on the old friends of his family,
to beggar himself in the effort to keep the peasants from emigrat-
ing, to have lost all ideas of the duties of his caste——”

Here Mrs. O'Kelly’s brougham pulled up suddenly at her door,
and the stream of her eloquence received a temporary check.

CHAPTER VII.

SACKCLOTH AND ASHES.

Murruy opened the hall-door with a sleepy and aggrieved coun-
tenance.

“ There’s a woman here with a message for you, ma’am, ’s been
sittin’ in the hall these two hours. I couldn't have put her out,
Darrin’ I called in the policeman ; an’ I didn’t exactly like to do
that, as she looks a dacent sort of body.”

A messenger at one o'clock in the morning! Marcella knew
by instinct that the message was for her.

Mrs. O’Kelly divined the same, and sent Murphy away, and
pushed her debiitanée into the library while she spoke to the woman,
who had risen from the hall-chair and fixed her eyes on Mar-
cella, who quickly reappeared.

“Mrs. O'Kelly, I kuow this woman. Something is wrong
with my father.”

“Your father is dying,” said the woman, “ and he’s callin’ for
you. He's been ill these four days, and wouldn't tell us where to:
look for you. I knowed that grandeur couldn't change ye that
much, Marcella, but what you'd want to see him. I ask your
pardon, Miss, but I don’t know how to speak to you rightly in that
beautiful dress.”

Marcella Grace. 123

Marcella was already putting off her necklace and bracelets
and throwing them on the hall-table.

“Get a cab at once,” she said, “ and I will change my dress
in a moment and go with you. Oh, my poor father, why was I
so selfish as to leave you?”

“ Marcella, are you quite mad? After all the trouble I have
taken to conceal your connexion with low people to think of run
ning out like this to them in the middle of the night! You shall
not do it. These people always exaggerate. It will be quite time
enough in the morning, when you go out naturally as a young lady
should, and no one need know where you are going.”

But Marcelle had not waited to hear the last of these rapidly
uttered words, but had flown to the top of the house, and was down
again, clothed in a dark dress, before her patroness had time to
realise what she was doing.

“ Marcella, I am shocked and disappointed in you. If you quit
this house at such an hour, remember you never come back to it.’

“Oh, why did I leave him? Why did I ever leave him?”
moaned the girl, unfastening the door with her trembling hands.
“Come, Mrs. Casey. Oh, Mrs. O'Kelly, don’t be angry. Iam
not ungrateful—but my father ”

: The humble messenger stood up and courtesied to the angry
lady, and the next moment Mrs. O'Kelly stood alone in the hall in a
passion of outraged and injured dignity.

In the meantime Marcella, all her finery vanished, was flying
through the streets at a pace with which her companion could
hardly keep up. There were no cabs to be seen, and if there had
been she had no money. The ill-kept, ill-lighted streets of the
Liberties had never looked so dismal as now, their squalor and
misery seemed more appalling to Marcella than they had ever
seemed before. Arrived at the old house at last, she flung herself
on her knees at her father’s bedside.

“ Whisht, Marcella! Sure I wouldn't have sent for you,
darlin’, only I haven’t many hours to live. Whin I first took sick, I
wanted you, but I said, says I, you mustn’t be intherferin’ wid the
crature’s good fortune, Michael Grace. Sure who will look after
her when you're gone if you anger the lady that’s good to her ?
An’ when I felt: I was goin’ to die, I seen everything so different
from what it was before. Sure your mother was a lady, Marcella,
and the Lord made you to live among ladies, and He sent one
of them afther you to take you to your natural place. | An’
what would the quality be doin’ wid me in their way—nothin’

Vor. x11, No. 141. i

124 Two Wayfarers.

but a big blundherin’ crature that would be disgracin’ youP And
sure, my darlin’, I’m goin’ to heaven to get a sight o’ your mother,
though God knows it’s the angels she'll be keepin’ company with
an’ not with the likes o’ me. Well, well, sure Himself will finda
little place for Michael somewhere, for they say heaven’s very big
and there’s a corner there for everybody that the Lord Jesus took
thought of when He died. And more betoken, Father O'Reilly
tould me yesterday that the Lord was thinkin’ o' me on the cross
when He died. Did you ever hear the like o’ that, Marcella?
Of coorse I ought ha’ knowed it, but it niver came home to me
rightly the way it does now. I seem to see a meanin’ in it an’ a
raison for it; for sure what 'd become of me a sthranger, pushed
suddenly out into the other world if I hadn’t a friend there to be
providin’ for me?”

The dispensary doctor shook his head when questioned by
Marcella. The old man was older than she had thought, and had
long been breaking up. He was dying now as fast as he could of
rapid disease of the heart.

Days passed over, and Marcella, completely devoted to the task
of soothing his last hours, thought of nothing, remembered no-
thing but the fast-fleeting presence of this affectionate father, the
only and tender, if rugged companion of her childhood and youth,
the one creature to whom she really belonged in the world. No
message came from Mrs. O'Kelly, and Marcella was obliged to the
kindness of her poor neighbours for such little assistance as she
could not do without. At last the supreme moment came, and he
expired in her arms, blessing her

And the desolate girl, having followed him to the grave, sat in
the dreary old house, dismayed and alone.

TWO WAYFARERS,
BY KATHARINE TYNAN.

NE with a sudden cry

Orieth : “ O Lord! and whence is this to me
That in my daily pathway I should see

Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh,

With thy still face and fair,
And the divine deep sorrow in thine eyes,
And thy eternal arms stretched loving-wiee

As on the Cross they were ?

Two Wayfarers.

“It Thad only known
How I should meet Thee this day face to face,
Thad made all my life a praying-place

For this hour's sake alone :

Now I am poor indeed.

I who have gathered all things most forlorn,
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with thorn ;—
See how my weak hands bleed!”

Onx bendeth low, and saith :

“Lo! my hands bleed likewise, and I am God.

Come, heart of mine! wilt tread the path I trod,
The desert way of death ?
Come, bleeding hands! and take

My thorns that bring new toil and weariness,

Days of gray pain, and nights of sore distress.
Come ! for my great love's sake,

‘ Yot if thou fearest to come,
Speak ! I can give thee fairest earthly things,
Love, and sweet peece in shelter of love's wings,
By pleasant paths of home ;
And thou wilt still be mine.
‘Choose thou thy path! My way is dark, I know,
Yet through the moaning wind and rain and snow
My feet should go with thine.”

One groweth wan and gray,
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him,
Then he doth lift hie weary eyes and dim,

With ashen lips doth say :

w With Theo the desert sands!
How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower of Pain!
“Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and vain

‘And wringing of the hands?

“It the rose were my share,
And thine the thorn, how could I lift mine eyes
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise,

To thine eyes dreamy fair

That muse on Calvary ?

Under the sad straight brows thy gaze would say:
“Now, heart ! in what dark hour of night or day
‘Hast thou kept watch with me?”

125

c 126 )

AN IRISHWOMAN IN DISGUISE.
BY A, F. NOBTH.

Panr I.

Tux voyage across the Atlantic was tedious jin those days, and
it was not until November had set in that she landed in New
York, expecting to be met by her husband, or at least by some
friendly deputy. No one was there, however; no letter even
gave token that her coming had been looked for. Knowing no-
thing of routes or methods of travel, and unwilling probably to
force herself upon her husband until her welcome was more assured,
Mrs. Jameson took up her abode at afhotel in New York, there to
await the answer to a letter she had sent to Toronto asking for
further directions. Happily her writings were known in New
York, and she found there many and kind friends, who did their
best to make her stay pleasant, and to alleviate the home-sickness
and depression caused by her very unpleasant position ina strange
land. After three weeks’ waiting Mr. Jameson’s letter came, and
in spite of the expostulations of her new friends, who assured her
that she had chosen the worst possible season for her journey, she
proceeded up the Hudson river in a steamboat, the prow of which
was armed with sharp iron for the purpose of cutting its way
through the ice which blocked up the river. The boat could not
proceed beyond Hudson, and the journey thence to Queenstown,
near Niagara occupied six days and nights. By a lucky chance a
steamboat, the last of the season, was still found on Lake Ontario,
and in this Mrs. Jameson proceeded to Toronto, arriving there on
a cold, damp day, just as a snow-storm was beginning to fall. She
found no one to meet her here either, the neglect being more
excusable now than on the previous occasion, the arrival of the
steamer being accidental and unexpected, and she had to proceed
on foot, through dreary, muddy streets, and under falling sleet to
her new home.

There appears to have been nothing in her husband's reception
of her to compensate for the external discomfort. The impression
thus received of Toronto was never entirely effaced, and in spite of
brave efforts to rouse herself, and to make the best of her life in the
strange new land, Canada always appeared to her as a place of
exile. Her winter’s experience showed her the futility of her

An Irishwoman in Disguise. 127

expectations of any real union with her husband, and before the
summer had come ,to transform the frozen land with its sudden
outburst of life, and warmth, and beauty, Mrs. Jameson had taken
her resolution, and the arrangements for her final separation from
her husband were in progress. Mr. Jameson, who had been
Attorney-General when his wife joined him, had now risen to the
rank of Chancellor of the province. This promotion necessitated
a change of residence: Mrs. Jameson remained until this had been
effected, and even attended in the semi-official manner proper to
the wife of a dignitary, at the prorogation of Parliament. She
devoted two months to a tour through Canada and the Indian
settlementsjon the-borders of the lakes, leaving Toronto for good
apparently in September. She then spent some time in Massachu-
setts and, Pennsylvania, and at Stockbridge in New England, with
Miss Sedgwick the American writer, who was thenceforth enrolled
among the number of her friends and correspondents. She also
visited her old friend;Fanny Kemble, now Mra. Butler, at Philadel-
phia, and spent a fortnight in Boston, which city she says, pleases
her best of all the places she has seen in “ this wide land.”

Early in 1838, the legal arrangements with her husband being
satisfactorily concluded, she sailed for England, arriving there on
the first of March. She found her father, concerning whose state
of health she had been in much uneasiness, still living, although
declining gradually, and the consciousness that her mother and
unmarried sisters were in a great measure dependent on her, acted
as a spur to her energies and prevented her yielding to the lassi-
tude and depression consequent on the hardships and anxieties of
the past year. She had brought with her from Canada a diary of
her life, studies, and travels in that country, and her first occupa-
tion when she found herself again established in her sister’s house,
was to put these notes into shape for publication. This book, under
the title of “Winter Studies and Summer Rambles,” appeared in
the autumn of the same year, and was favourably received both in
England and America. It offers a striking contrast to the volumes
of “Visits and Sketches ;” its scene is chiefly laid, not in the literary
and artistic capitals of Europe, but along the shores of the great
North American lakes ; while the new friends that she makes are
no longer poets and sculptors, but settlers, Protestant missionaries,
with their half-caste wives, and sometimes even, pure blooded
Indians. Her unfailing cheerfulness never shows more plainly
than in her account of this journey ; she never attempts to disguise
‘ite discomforts, made as it was, sometimes in stage-coachés, “heavy,

128 An Irishrroman in Disguise.

lumbering vehicles, well calculated to live in roads where any
decent carriage must needs founder ;” sometimes in any other cart
or waggon that could be pressed into her service ; sometimes in
the steamers plying on the lakes; and more than once, as in the
journey to and from the Sault Ste Marie, in an open boat, or birch-
bark canoe, rowed by voyageurs; but she is never grumbling or
discontented, and evidently considers the hardships she endures a
small price to pay for enlarged interests and experience. Her
descriptions of the Indians and their ways of life are extremely
graphic, and she speaks with warm gratitude of the kindness she
received from one of the women, the widow of an Irish fur-trader
named Johnston, who appeared to unite in her own person some of
the better characteristics of Indian and civilised life. Mrs. Jame-
eon considers that the equaws, hard as their lives are, are relatively
in a better position than the women of European countries. Indeed,
if she has not been misinformed, and if we may rely on her state-
ments concerning an Indian woman's absolute authority within
the walls of her own wigwam, and undisputed possession of her
children, in case of divorce or separation, the proposition, strange
as it may sound, is incontrovertible.

The state of her father’s health was for some years a source of
considerable anxiety to Mrs. Jameson, and prevented her leaving
England for more than a few weeks at atime. After the publi-
cation of “ Winter Studies and Summer Rambles” she employed
hereelf in translating the dramas of the Princess Amelia of Saxony,
and in 1841, appeared her first contribution to art literature, in the
shape of a guide to the various private collections in London.
Although she received every assistance from the owners of these
galleries, the work was a laborious one, requiring much accuracy
and research. It was followed by a series of articles on the early
Italian painters which first appeared in the Penny Magazine, and
were afterwards collected into a volume. This book subsequently
went through three editions, and was translated into French by
M. Ferdinand Labour. The Companion to the Private Galleries
was followed, in 1842, by a Handbook to the Public Galleries, and
simultaneously with these, the studies necessary for the more
important book which Mrs. Jameson considered the chief work of
her life were being carried on. She spent the autumn of 184] in
Paris, studying in the Louvre, and deriving much enjoyment from
her intercourse with French artists and art-critics. She returned
to London for Christmas, and in the spring following her father
died, leaving her mother and two of her sisters altogether depen-

An Irishuoman in Disguise. 129

dent on Mrs. Jameson. This caused a still further postponement
of her plans; the house at Notting Hill which Mr. Murphy’s
family hed occupied for some time, was changed for a smaller one
at Ealing, which house Mrs. Jameson continued to make her head-
quarters for some time. It possessed the, to her, great advantage
of being not far distant from Fordhook, the residence of Lady
Byron, her friendship and affection for whom increased day by
day. This constant intercourse with her friend formed at this time
the chief charm of her laborious, self-denying life. She also found
a new friend in Miss Barrett, whose acquaintance she accidentally
made, and a widening sphere of usefulness in the interest she
began to take in social questions, notably, as might have been ex-
pected, in those relating to the welfare of women and children.
But the work on sacred and legendary art was still the work
nearest to her heart, holding its ground in spite of many obstacles
—obstacles which were not overcome until the August of 1845,
when she set out for Germany en route for Italy. She remained
for six weeks in Germany, devoting a great part of that time to
Madame von Goethe, who had lately lost her only daughter, a
promising girl of seventeen. She also visited her friends, Major
and Mrs. Noel, who were then resident in Bohemia, and finally
penetrated as far into Northern Italy as Cremona. On her return
to London, she writes to her friend Miss Sedgwick, that the
Essays on Sacred and Legendary Art are in progress, those on the
Apostles, Evangelists, and Fathers of the Church being already
completed. In the spring of 1846 appeared another volume of
collected papers, three of them being on the social position of
women ; and some essays selected from the forthcoming volume
of “Sacred and Legendary Art,” appeared as a tentative experi-
ment in the columns of the Atheneum. The success which they
met with smoothed the way for the publication of the complete
work, and the negotiations with Messrs Longman soon came to a
satisfactory conclusion. The completion of the work, with its
numerous illustrations, necessitated a second visit to Italy, and Mrs.
Jameson accordingly set out, in the autumn of 1846, accompanied
by her niece and future biographer, Gerardine Bate, to whom she
was anxious to give the advantage of a prolonged residence abroad.

Their first resting-place was Paris, where they were soon joined
by Mr. and Mrs. Browning, whose hurried marriage had taken all
their friends by surprise. Just before her departure from London,
Mrs. Jameson had received a note from Miss Barrett, excusing
herself for not coming to say farewell to her friend, as she was

180 An Irishwoman in Disguise.

unable to leave her sofa. And now the invalid was a bride on her
wedding tour. Much astonished, Mrs. Jameson went to see the
newly-married pair, and soon persuaded them to take up their
abode in the pension where she and her niece were staying—a com-
panionship which was prolonged by all four travelling together as
far as Pisa. Mrs, Macpherson, although effacing herself as far as
possible in her aunt’s biography, cannot resist recording some of
her own recollections of the journey, and her wonder and delight
at seeing Italy for the first time in such companionship. The
circumstances were certainly such as were likely to make an im-
pression on an enthusiastic girl of sixteen. We can easily believe
that Gerardine herself was not the least interesting figure in the
little group, and we are tempted to regret the reticence she
pr.ctises in all that concerns merely herself. She was her aunt’s
inseparable companion and assistant, working diligently under her
direction at the drawings and tracings required for the book.
After three months’ study in the Campo Santo and other art
treasuries of Pisa, Mrs. Jameson and Gerardine took leave of the
Brownings and went on to Florence, where they found many old,
and some new friends. There they worked diligently for two
months, at the end of which time the news reached Mra. Jameson
that her friend Ottilie von Goethe had arrived in Rome, in
company with her invalid son. The attraction was not to be
resisted; Mrs. Jameson straightway abandoned Florence, and
hastened to join her friend in Rome. It was twenty-three years
since she had been there, yet thanks to her own vivid recollections,
and to the conservative spirit dominant in the Eternal City, she
did not feel herself a stranger. Changes were beginning, however ;
it was the first year of the Pontificate of Pius IX., and great were
the hopes entertained for the future of Rome under a Pope hold-
ing views apparently more advanced than those of his predecessors.
The city was crowded with foreign visitors, many of them distin-
guished ones, and Mrs. Jameson’s apartment in the Piazza di
Spagna, soon became a rendezvous for such of them as were
interested in literary or artistic subjects. John Gibson the sculptor,
Overbeck, the Rev. Francis Mahony, (Father Prout), Mr. and Mrs.
Cobden, and of course Madame von Goethe, were among the habitués
of those pleasant Sunday evening reunions, descriptions of which
found their way into some of the English newspapers, most probably
through the reverend correspondent of the Daily News. And
among the guests of less note, who were, we may be sure, no less
hospitably welcomed than the celebrities, came one who was to be

An Ivisghuoman in Disguise. 181

the cause of yet another reversal of Mrs. Jameson’s plans, and of
what may be counted one of the disappointments of her life. This
was Robert Macpherson, a young artist of good Highland family,
who was then working in Rome. He and Mrs. Jameson’s niece
Gerardine, fell in love almost at first sight, and although there is
little said on the subject in the memoir, we gather that it was this
attachment that caused Mrs. Jameson's return to England so
much sooner than she had intended. Mrs. Macpherson speaks of
her own marriage with a strange sort of remorse for the disappoint-
ment it had caused her aunt, who naturally looked forward to the
girl’s companionship for some years to come. There was opposition
to the engagement, finally overcome by the young people's con-
stancy, and they were married in England in September, 1849.
Mrs, Macpherson’s own story, as told in Mrs. Oliphant’s preface
to the memoir, is not without interest, particularly the account of
her efforts to maintain her four children after her husband’s death.
She seems to have inherited her aunt's brave, uncomplaining spirit,
and was certajnly well fitted, by sympathy with its subject, to under-
take the biography which she did not live to see through the press.

Although Mrs. Jameson’s residence abroad terminated thus
abruptly, the illustrations for the Legends of the Saints and Mar-
tyrs, the first volume of the series on Sacred and Legendary Art,
were in a sufficiently advanced state to allow of their being com-
pleted in England, and the work appeared in the autumn of 1848.
Neither in this book nor in the subsequent volumes of the series
does Mrs. Jameson aspire to the rank of an art critic ; the various
paintings described are classified according to their subjects and not
according to the schools of painting which they represent ; and her
object is to aid in a better understanding of the pictures, by
relating the various legends and traditions of the saints and angela,
and explaining their symbols and attributes.

Sara Coleridge, in one of her charming letters, predicts that
this book will not please the religiously minded of every denomi-
nation ; Catholics objecting to the author's manner of treating
many of the legends as myths, while zealous Protestants, on the
other hand, will equally dislike the toleration shown to what they
consider superstitious. Mrs. Coleridge in this criticiam falls into
the common error of supposing that’ Catholics accept these fanciful
Jegends as facts instead of myths and allegories. Mr. Ruskin holds
that “a lovely legend is all the more precious when it has no
foundation,” meaning that it is all the more valuable as an embodi-
ment of the faith of a particular race or epoch, that it would beasa

132 An Irishwoman in Disguise.

mere statement of facts. He is speaking of purely historical
legends, containing no element of the supernatural, but his words
may be accepted with certain reservations, as true of the religious
legends which in so many instances, contain in a crystallised form,
the faith and hope of our medival forefathers,

Mrs. Jameson’s volumes on Sacred and Legendary Art are
deservedly popular, having done much towards awakening an in-
telligent interest in the art of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and
fifteenth centuries.

As soon as the irksome labour of revising the proofs was fin-
ished, Mrs. Jameson again left London, going this time to Ireland,
which she had not seen since she left it, a child, in 1798. It is strange
that her return to her native land, after the absence of half a cen-
tury, should take place the very year in which the history of that of
her departure repeated itself, although in a less sanguinary form,
the struggle ending in this case with the exile instead of the death
of its enthusiastic leaders. But Mrs. Jameson, although sympa-
thising with the misery and destitution that met her at every step,
took more interest, as indeed was natural, in scenery than in politics,
in the doings of the Edgeworth family than in those of the Young
Trelanders. She visited the county Wicklow, Enniskillen, and
Lough Erne; saw the sun sink into the Atlantic from the shores
of Galway Bay, and penetrated as far south as Limerick and Water-
ford, apparently leaving Killarney unvisited.

We find her next at Brighton, perhaps by way of contrast;
then with her mother at Ealing, writing the news of Gerardine’s
marriage to her friend Miss Sedgwick in America. Her Legends
of the Saints and Martyrs had had a decided success, and she was
now engaged on the volume relating to the Monastic Orders, the
drawings and studies for which she had carried on simultaneously
with the first, and which was therefore now less of a labour to

re.

In 1851, the exertions made by her friends resulted in obtaining
for her, from the then Premier, Lord John Russell, a yearly
pension of £100. The news was communicated to her by Mr.
Thackeray, who was one of the trustees appointed to receive the
money. It was a welcome addition to her income, on account
rather of her mother and sisters than herself. She was much
interested in the Exhibition of 1851, and undertook the prepara-
tion of one of the guide-books to the building—the Companion to
the Court of Modern Sculpture. The question of an article on
the Crystal Palace, to be contributed by her to the Edinburgh

An Trishwoman in Disguise. 138

Review, was also under discussion, but the state of her mother's.
health, and the necessity for finishing the “Legends of the Ma-
donna,” compelled her to abandon her project. A good deal of
her attention was at this time devoted to social questions, such as
the education of the masses, and the position and employment of
women. The house in Bruton-street, which she then shared with
her sister, Mrs. Sherwin, was the meeting-place for many of those
eager young spirits who were then beginning that advocacy of
women’s rights, and struggle against women’s wrongs, which they
were later to pursue with such success, Miss Parkes, Miss Emily
Faithful, and Miss Procter were among this little group of friends.
of a younger generation, and the periodical of which Miss Parkes
was editor, The Englishwoman’s Journal, which did good ser-
vice in its day, owed much to Mre. Jameson’s counsel and sympathy.
It was at this time that Mrs. Jameson lost one of the two friends
on whom she had lavished the strongest feelings of her warm
heart. The origin of the rupture between her and Lady Byron
was for many years shrouded in mystery almost as dense as that
which still envelops Lady Byron’s relations with her husband.
It was not until after Mrs. Jameson's death that even the few facts.
now known transpired through her sister Charlotte, her sole
confidante in the matter. It seems that the discovery that Mrs.
Jameson was the depositary of a secret concerning a member of
Lady Byron’s family, which had not been revealed to that lady, so-
incensed her that she broke off all relations with her friend of
twenty years’ standing; who was in her turn too proud to enter
into explanations, or to make known the fact that the secret having
come to her in an accidental manner, she was bound in honour
not to reveal it. This estrangement, besides being in itself a bitter
grief to Mrs. Jameson, led also to one with still older friends,
Major Noel and his wife, her intimacy with whom she insisted on
breaking off, lest she should compromise them in the eyes of their
relative. So determined was her action in this matter, that after
her death a letter from Mrs. Noel, pleading for a renewal of their
intercourse, was found among her papers unopened.

In 1854, Mrs. Jameson’s mother died—of the gradual decline of
old age, and surrounded by her children ; while some months later
came the news of Mr. Jameson’s death in Canada. This latter
event could not, under the circumstances, have caused the widow
any very acute grief, but it was soon found that it would have a
very decided effect upon her future life. Mr. Jameson had, some
time before, obtained from his wife the documents securing to her

434 An Trishwoman tn Dieguise.

her allowance of £300 per annum, alleging that he would thus .
be enabled to purchase land, on which he could secure to her, at
his death, a still larger income than the one on which she resigned
her claim. It was now found, however, that he hed made no pro-
vision for her, and that his entire property went to a stranger.
When the fact of this injustice, to call it by no harsher name,
became known to Mrs. Jameson’s friends, a certain number of
them subscribed a sufficient sum to purchase an annuity of £100,
Mrz. Procter, the originator of the plan, being deputed to convey the
intelligence to Mrs. Jameson. There was some uneasiness among
the conspirators lest her feelings should be hurt at this gift, but
they soon found that their fears were groundless, and that the
kindness was to be accepted in the spirit in which it was offered.
In a letter to Mrs. Procter on the subject, Mrs. Jameson gratefully
acknowledges the boon which this little sum was to her, in
enabling her to secure her sisters against want.

It was at this time that she made an experiment which only
failed because her health was unequal to the effort it required ;
she endeavoured to express some of her views on social and cha-
ritable subjects by means of lectures. One on Sisters of Charity,
and one on the Communion of Labour, were delivered privately in
the house of her friend Mrs. Reid, the former subsequently
appearing in pamphlet form, when it reached a second edition in a
few months, The physical effort was, however, found to be too
great, and the plan was abandoned. Her interest in these subjects
is shown by the fact that her next visit to the Continent was spent,
not in her former haunts, but in Paris, studying the working of
hospitals and charitable institutions. It is worthy of note that
the great art critic of our own day has also devoted much of his
later years to social subjects. It would seem as though the study
of art, conscientiously pursued, has a tendency to lead its disciples
to the study of the mysteries of human life, of which it is the
exponent. The true artist must be a man of wide sympathies, and
the same rule holds good of the art critic.

After a time, however, Mrs. Jameson returned to her chosen
work, and going to Paris, where the Brownings and other friends *
wore established, began the preparation of a second edition of the
“‘ Legends of the Madonna.” This necessitated the transfer of
some of the original illustrations to copper, and this work was
executed under Mrs. Jameson’s superintendence by her faithful
assistant of former days, her niece, Mrs. Macpherson, who was
once more associated with her in her work.

An Irishwoman in Disguise. 135

The summer and winter of 1857 were spent by Mra. Jamesor
in Italy, although not in Rome. The date of a letter to Mr.
Longman shows her to have been in Florence in the December of
that year. We find in the Italian Note Books of Nathaniek
Hawthorne, some passages dated from Rome, May, 1858, which
describe the meeting of himself and his wife with Mrs, Jameson,.
as well as a drive which he took in her company to the little church
of “ Domine quo vadis” built in commemoration of the legendary
meeting of our Lord and St. Peter; to the Basilica of San.
Sebastiano, and along the Appian Way, past the tomb of Cecilia
Metella. Hawthorne and Mrs. Jameson do not seem to have taken
to each other; his praises of her being somewhat patronising. It
would seem as though she did not treat him with all the deference:
to which he was accustomed, and he shows his annoyance with a
good deal of simplicity. “In fact,” he says, “without perhaps.
assuming more taste and judgment than really belonged to her, it
was impossible not to perceive that she gave her companions no-
credit for knowing one single, simplest thing about art. Nor, on
the whole, do I think she underrated me; the only mystery is,
how she came to be so well aware of my ignorance on artistic
points.” No very great mystery, surely ; ignorance on such points
generally manifesting itself very plainly. He says that Mrs.
Jameson must have been a perfectly pretty woman in her day; a.
blue, or green-eyed, fair-haired beauty; her hair being now, he-
thinks, not white but flaxen in the extreme. As however, Fanny.
Kemble had formerly described her hair as reddish, the flaxen
tint must have been due to a large proportion of white hairs,
mixed with those of the original hue. He also says that he had
expected to meet an elderly lady, but not one quite so venerable-
as Mrs. Jameson. He supposes her to be about seventy years of
age. In point of fact, she was then but sixty-four.

It was in the winter of 1858 that Mrs. Jameson began the
concluding volume of her sacred art series, the “ History of our
Lord and St. John the Baptist.” Her health was beginning to fail ;
‘but she was anxious to complete her work, which she looked on as.
a sort of provision for the two sisters who were dependent on her.
She left Italy in the summer, spending some time with her still
faithful friend, Madame von Goethe, in or near Dresden, and
arrived in London in the beginning of October. She attended the
Social Science meeting at Bradford, visiting Haworth, Charlotte
Bronté’s home, and making the acquaintance of many persons of
note. She spent the next few months, the last of her life, partly

336 An Irishwoman in Disguise.

with her sisters at Brighton, partly in London, where she passed.
much of her time in the British Museum, studying for the work
in hand. It was in returning from the Museum, one snowy day
in March, that she caught a severe cold. She herself made light
of it, but Miss Parkes and Miss Procter, who called to see her,
were so much alarmed at her symptoms, that they telegraphed on
their own responsibility to the sisters at Brighton, who came to
town at once. Before any active measures were taken, however,
the disease had gone too far to be arrested, and in less than a week
she was dead. She was delirious for some time before her death,
and her wanderings were chiefly on subjects connected with her
book—surely a fitting theme for the meditations of a parting soul.

Her unfinished work was taken up by Lady Eastlake, and
finally given to the world in a somewhat different form from that
planned by its originator. It now forms the fifth and sixth
volumes of the series on Sacred and Legendary Art.

Such is the history of Anna Jameson’s sixty years of life: a
life marred in its chief relation, and made bright for herself and
serviceable to others by her own unfailing courage and energy.
She never posed as a martyr, or made capital, social or otherwise,
out of the troubles of her married life; she bore them with dignified
reticence, finding compensation in the affection of her own family
and of her chosen friends, and turning her freedom and leisure to
the best account by her artistic and literary labours. She was
essentially a woman ; giving her best thoughts to the service of
women, and looking chiefly to their sympathy for happiness and
comfort. That she was not thoroughly an Irishwoman is due
rather to circumstances than to choice. Her best qualities are dis-
tinctively Irish, and her sympathy with her country is shown by
many a chance word and phrase scattered through her writings.
In one letter, dated December, 1848, she says, speaking of the
Repeal agitation, “ And then the moral courage which the people
have shown, their self-denial—admirable, generous people! I am
really proud of my countrymen. Miserable, ignorant, ragged
though they be, they are the only people in Europe now who are
acting simultaneously on a high principle; among whom poetry
is not a thing of words, but of act and deed.” And again in March,
1846: “The new policy with regard to Ireland is also of deepest inte-
rest to me, an Irishwoman, though I abhor this proposed Coercion
Bill of Lord 8t. Germains, and pray against it with all my heart.”

This claim which she herself makes should not be disallowed

— hy her countrymen.

(197)

JOHNNY'S GIFT.
BY MRS. F. PENTRILL, AUTHOR OF “ LINA’S TALES.”

“7 ITTLE children, love one another.” How many centuries

have passed since the disciple whom Jesus loved uttered
these beautiful words! He was never tired of saying them ; over
and over again did he repeat them to his disciples; for he was old,
and wise, and near death, and he knew that in their practice would
be the safeguard and happiness of those he was leaving behind
him on earth.

“Little children, love one another.” Johnny had heard the
words for the first time that day, and they echoed in his heart with
allthe strength of a personal appeal, for he was a little child, longing
to show kindness and love to other little children, yet without a
brother, or sister, or cousin even, on whom to bestow the outpour-
ings of his loving heart. What, then, could he do to carry out
dear St. John’s favourite precept P

Suddenly he remembered his mother reading to him the Annals
of the Holy Childhood ; reading how there were thousands and
thousands of poor little heathen children left to die on the roads
and by the river sides; nay, how sometimes, in poverty or heart-
lessness, their own parents killed them; reading how there were
plenty of missioners and nuns eager to go forth and save the little
helpless creatures, but that money was wanted to enable them to
do so, and that the children of happier lands ought to do all in
their power to help the good work.

Johnny sat by the fire in his cozy nursery and glanced at the
picture-covered walls, at the toys scattered about, at all the pretty
things that made his life so pleasant ; but these could be of no use
to those far-off little brothers and sisters, and there was no money
—no, not a penny—left in his purse. Stay—to-morrow would be
Christmas Day, and his grandfather always gave him half a
sovereign on that auspicious morning. The Holy Childhood should
have it all—yes, all.

Johnny’s heart throbbed with pleasure as he made this resolu-
tion; the flames of the fire danced up and down, as if they took
part in his joy; the very faces on the walls seemed to smile at
him ; everything had a new brightness and pleasantness, and, his
mother coming in at that moment, he dashed up to her, ‘crying:

188 Johnny a Gift.

“ Oh, mamma! mamma! the poor little pagan children! Grand-
pape’s ten shillings !—let me send it all.”

Johnny’s mamma was rather confused by his eager words, and
he had to explain.

“You know, mamma, that grandpapa always gives me half a
sovereign on Christmas Day, and generally I spend it on toys and
bon-bons. Well, this year I wieh to give it all to the Holy
Childhood.”

But Johnny’s mamma did not wish him to act in haste, and
repent afterwards. ‘‘Consider,” she said, “that if you give this
money away you will have no more for some time, and when you
wish to buy things, you will have to do without them.”

“I have considered,” said Johnny, “and I will do without
the things.”

“Tf you gave half,” continued his mamma, “ that would still
be a good work, and you would have something left for yourself.”

“Ah! but that would only do half the good,” said Johnny.
“No, no, mamma, it must all be given to those poor little
children.”

Then Johnny’s mamma kissed him, feeling, I think, very proud
and glad, though she said: “ Well, my boy, you can give me the
money to-morrow, if you wish it, but remember you can still
change your mind.”

The morrow came, and with it the expected ten shillings.
Johnny would not rest till he had seen a letter written, enclosing
his offering; then he went to Mass with a joyous heart, and
listened while the preacher spoke of the shepherds who came to
the Crib, bringing their simple gifts, and of the kings, who for-
sook their wealth and pleasures to follow the star that led to
Bethlehem. Never before had Johnny been so happy as on that
Christmas Day, for he too had done something to prove his love
for the little Infant Jesus.

Johnny is still alive, and is, I trust, well and happy, for this
did not happen long ago, or in a foreign land: on the contrary, it
was only last Christmas twelvemonth, and in Dublin.

So you see, Johnny is the fellow-townsman, or rather fellow-
townsboy, of many of you, my little readers. Perhaps you have
met him ; perhaps he may even be the friend of some of you, and,
in any case, I hope he will be a model to you all. A plaything, a
little pleasure, a cake, it does not seem much of which to deprive
oneself, and yet what may it not mean to those poor heathenchildren,
who are dying, soul and body, for want of hands to save them?

€189.)

THE TRINITY IN THE TAPER.

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

O! the while the candle burns
On the altar fair to see,
To a type the taper turns
Of the Blessed Trinity.

In the virgin wax we view
God the Father, God Creator:

In the wick the God-Man true,
Saviour, Lord, and Mediator.

From the wax the wick proceeds;
From the Father, living Might,

God the Son, the Word proceeds,
Wisdom, perfect, infinite.

From the wax and wick together,
Flows the flame—procession meet!

From the glorious Son and Father,
Love proceeds, the Paraclete.

So, the while the candle burns
On the altar fair to see,—

In the taper Faith discerns
Symbols of the Trinity.

Three in One: oh ! hark, and hear it!
‘Wax and wick and flame decay,
But the Father, Son, and Spirit
Live adored and loved for aye !

You. xni., No. 140. ia

( 140 )

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.
BY JOHN FALLON.

Parr V.—Visrr to Granapa (Concluded.)

Again I start in the early morning, on this my second day, and
take the hotel courier as a guide, to economise time. We first
proceed on foot to the glorious cathedral.

Like that of Seville, it is built on the site of the principal
mosque of the town, but of the Moorish work nothing apparently
was utilised or spared. In point of length, width, and height,
this cathedral ranks amongst the first in Europe. In ground plan
it is quite Gothic, with nave and double aisles complete, except
that its transepta do not project: in other words, it is not cruci-
form. On the other hand, its eastern end is the most beautiful
semicircular “chevét”’ imaginable, the very ideal of what a
Gothic ought to be; and the “ cimborio,” or lantern, rises to an
immense height, exactly over the grand altar. With its double
circle of tall supporting pillars, it does duty as a baldachino, pro-
bably the grandest in the world.

Having said this much, I should add that this Cathedral was
begun, and mainly built, in the days of Charles V., during the full
burst of the renaissance; so that all the details of plinth, and
capital, and cornice are Greco-Roman, and the arches and vaultings
are circular, instead of pointed. It is on record that, at least
once, the work was stopped, “por no ser Gética (for not being
Gothic), which shows the struggle between the expiring style and
the new, and special permission had to be procured to let the
building proceed.*

Disciples of Gilbert Scott and Street will call it pagan! [If it
be, the same charge lies against St. Peter’s of Rome and the older
basilicas ; against St. Eustache, and St. Roch, and St. Sulpice of
Paris, and against our own Sligo Cathedral. In fact, it is Roman-
esque revived, built upon Gothic lines, when Gothic tastes were.
expiring, but not yet dead ; and this interesting historical fact can
be traced in every stone.

* Strange, that while Gothic architecture was being banished from here, it
was atill triumphant in Segovia and Salamanca.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. lal

This cathedral, like so many others, has felt the influence of
the whitewashing age, and the result, to superficial observers, robs
it of all its charm. But this blemish is being removed. If the noble
pile be let clothe itself with the sober hues of time; or, better
still, if it be flooded with the prismatic tints of true stained glass
I know not the church that it will not vie with for beauty.

The principal painter here is Alonso Cafio, a great artist, anda
contemporary of Murillo. But his pictures, like Murillo’s at Se-
ville, are hung in false lights, or in side chapels, where people are
praying; so you will not, I hope, expect from me a description of
them.

As at Seville, also, we have here a “a gate of pardon,” but, of
course, no “court of oranges.” The gate is an elaborate affair of
renaissance architecture, leading straight into the north transept ;
and, directly opposite, on the south side, is the entrance to the
““ Capilla de los reyes,” a mortuary chapel of unique interest, for
it contains the tombs, and in its crypts lie the remains of Isabella
and Ferdinand, of Queen Johanna and Archduke Philip !

Perhaps the finest wrought-iron gate in the world encloses this
chapel. To see such gates one must come to Andalusia. Shutting
off patio and chapel alike, they represent an art now almost for-
gotten, surviving only in a diminutive form, in humble workshops
hidden away in dark and narrow lanes. There you can see the
blow-pipe and hammer still at work, fashioning the obdurate iron
into forms of strange beauty, graceful and fairy-like as the work
of angels. Such you see it here, in a portal fit for giants, and
thus you enter the mortuary house of royalty.

Isabella died in 1504, and her remains lay in the vaults of the
Alhambra till Ferdinand’s death in 1516, and for a year after-
wards: in fact till this chapel was fit to receive them. Philip the
Handsome died in 1506; and his widow, Queen Johanna, discon-
solate and absolutely crazed with grief, started in midwinter, by
night stages, to have him laid beside her mother. Visitors to the
Paris Exhibition of 1878 will probably remember Madrasso’s pic-
ture of the widowed queen proceeding on this wild journey, her
jealous eyes glimmering in the flickering light of the torches. She
was induced to halt at Tordesillas, far away in Old Castille, and
during forty-seven long years she nursed her silent sorrow, keeping
watch and ward over her husband’s coffin, till merciful death
knocked at her door, and then both were removed here.

Of all the recumbent effigies that I have seen, none ever struck
me like that of Queen Isabella. Sculptured in Carrara marble,

142 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

the calm, serene face brings out the ideal of the Christian woman,
who sanctified each relation of public and private life, while
adorning a throne, and conquered at the same time the everlasting
gratitude of her subjects and the admiration of the world.*

Quite near to this chapel of royalty, and equally adjoining the
southern side of the cathedral, is the “‘sagrario,” a parish church
complete in itself, dark and solemn, fitting resting-place of sainted
archbishops and proud alcaldes of the city. A sort of floating
tradition fixes this “ sagrario” as having been for a time the pro-
Cathedral of Granada, next after the small chamber in the court
of lions; but this is a mere mistake, as Contréras has shown. The
archiepiscopal chair moved from the court of lions to the principal
mosque of the Alhambra, and thence to the cathedral: it never
stood here.

In the short passage between the Royal Chapel and the ‘“sa-
grario” is the mural monument and grave of Hernando del Pulgar,
“el de las Hazaiias”’ (he of the exploite) !

The crowning exploit which won him the unique honour of
being buried here is briefly told :—

It was in the eighth year of the siege. The city was beginning
at length to be closely invested on all sides, and famine was looming
in the near future.

The Catholic monarchs, with time thus enlisted on their side,
had issued a strict edict prohibiting any more of those exhibitions
of individual valour which displayed the equal prowess of Moor and
Christian, but were no longer the game for the besiegers. And
so the Moorish warriors, to force a quarrel, came with their taunts
and their challenges up to the very camp of the Spanish knights ;
and une, more daring than the rest, put his charger at the entrench-
ment, cleared it, and riding right up to the royal pavilion, hurled
a javelin at it, with a label attached, which contained an insult to
the queen. That man’s name was Tarfé, and he lived to regain
his side, at full speed, before a single Christian lance could roll
him in the dust.

Then up rose Hernando del Pulgar. He, with a chosen few,
obtained the coveted and exceptional permission to return the
compliment, and the knightly way he did it was this:

At dead of night, when the Moorish patrols were returning
from their rounds, he, with his few companions, burst through the

Even the inspired Shakespeare, all English as he was, could not refrain
from canorisiog her “The queen of earthly queens!”

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 143

town gates, and dashing up the narrow atreets, planted his dagger
here, in thia very spot, which was then the porch of the Great
Mosque of Granada. To the dagger was attached the “Ave
Maria,” written on parchment, and from it was also suspended a
lighted taper. And he and his friends returned in safety.

Next day out came Tarfé again, with the “Ave Maria”
dangling from his horse’s tail. Hernardo del Pulgar was not at
hand, to “maintain the achievement” of the night before: in
plain English, he was out foraging. But one of his young com-
panions, Garcilasso de la Vega, got leave to fight the Moor, and
“‘at him” he went, with courtly formality, all his brave blood
boiling in his heart. Poetic justice and historic truth combine in
telling that after a life-and-death struggle the young Christian
knight rose victorious, with the “ Ave Maria” rescued from the
dying grasp of the Moor, and this ending doubly endears the
remembrance of Pulgar’s exploit to Spanish pride.

This incident is familiar to readers of Washington Irving;
but I confess to a feeling of delightful surprise at finding the
monument here, exactly where the gate of the old mosque stood :
and the epitaph over Pulgar’s grave records that it is the place
“donde con los suyos posesion tomé. . . afio 1490.” (Where with
his comrades he took possession, in the year 1490.) Which means
two full years before the final capitulation! . . . So well may he
rest, in the scene of his glory.

Taking a carria~e, in the shape of a small open phaeton, drawn
by a pair of long-tailed Andalusian ponies, I went about exploring
the squares and open places, the old streets and suburbs. Already
one could observe preparations for the great festival of the day
after the morrow, in the shape of Venetian masts, gay bunting,
and festoons of evergreens. The guide, with keen eye to com-
mission profits, brought me into several shops, by way of showing
me “articles de Grenade :” they consist chiefly of crewel-stitched
embroidery, representing arabesques of fantastic design, epparently
in a style handed down from the Moorish days: but, as for pur-
chasing, I fear he found me obdurate as a stone.

You will not, I trust, expect description of a town a million
times described, especially as I am merely re-writing from notes
taken without the faintest idea of publicity. In this day’s rambles
I saw a genuine scimitar of Boabdil el Chico, with its ecabbard of
damascened gold: it is to be seen at the town house of Count
Palavicini, Marquis of Compotejar, lineal descendant of Sidi Yahya,

144 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.
where I went to obtain a card of admission for the Generalifé this

evening."

Often, as we went about, I alighted, to scramble up the steep
and narrow lanes—so narrow, that I could span them from side to
side with outstretched arms—so steep, that the ascent was by
flights of steps, hewn of solid stone.

Four centuries ago the now tottering mansions that form these
narrow streets were teeming with a dense mass of brave, warm-
blooded Moors, the aristocracy of many a noble eastern race,
crowded here from various parts of the kingdom, as the iron belt
of war tightened in, and sternly retaining all their noble fanati-
cism and undaunted courage to the last.

You enter the silent patios self-invited, and note the small
colonnades of marble and precious stucco, now encrusted with white-
wash and heavily laden with the dust of ages; and you observe
many a tiny fountain, where formerly the waters danced and mur-
mured, now dry and filled with cobwebs, clear tokens of desertion
and neglect. These quarters, formerly crowded by the rich and gay,
are now less than half-tenanted, and only by families of the
poorest class, like the ambitious pre-Union houses of Dublin, now
Jet in “tenements.”

There is a truly Oriental bazaar here, although not ancient, for
I believe it was rebuilt after a fire within living memory. The shop-
fronts are altogether open to the streets, merely supported by
slender marble shafts. The streets themselves are the narrowest
of the narrow, and screened from the sun by awning, stretched from
side to side. The siesta hour had crept on before I reached this
quarter, called the ‘“Zacatin,” so now all seemed asleep. Not a
buyer was on foot, not a seller pressed his wares on you ; silence
reigned supreme. It seemed strange to me, in the midst of a city
of seventy or eighty thousand inhabitants, with its university, &c.,
to find myeelf rambling in broad daylight in a labyrinth of lanes
almost as silent and lifeless as Pompeii. Sleep is a mighty spell,
and a far-spreading one; for, as I went out into the broader
streets, I found them, like the bazaar, deserted and still, as if the
inhabitants were all gone to another world.

Nothing to dispel the illusion but files of tall gray (or small
black) donkeys, with fringed trappings, and muzzles of network,
laden with baskets carrying all sorts of-things, from fresh vege-

“ Sidi Yahya became a Christian and a grandee, after helping the Spaniarde
to gain the town. Of course Moorish chroniclers never speak of him without
execrations,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 146

tables to old bricks; and files of large smooth-haired goats—
‘brown, black, piebald and magpie—driven from door to door to
keep the fair Grenadines in “ leche de cabra,” and muzzled, like
the donkeys, to obviate a natural charge on the luscious piles of
oranges, tomatos, and leeks displayed in tempting profusion along
the street sides.

A thing I observed—not, I trust, beneath the dignity of my
humble story to record—the savoury way in which the wine mer-
chants of the people store their black wine: not in barrels, but in
pigskins, hung from the side walls of their cellars, each pigskin
still retaining the legs and neck of the original animal, and
smeared, I believe, internally with ter or pitch to make it tight!
No wonder the people are abstemious, with such a “bouquet”
added to their grape-juice.

At length I leave the town and drive out to visit the gipsies
on the Monte Sagro. The road isa steep ascent, somewhat precipi-
tous on the right hand side, and the curious thing is that for this
ascent (as for several others round the town) you have to pay extra,
although the carriage is engaged by time at the pretty smart tariff
of three pesetas an hour.

Outside the caves, children more or less black, and more or leas
clothed, are rather importunate, asking for money, their parents
and seniors looking on sardonically, or offering to tell you your
fortune by your hands. Neither their gibberish nor their appear-
ance is preposseasing, nor do they display a particle of picturesque
costume to redeem them from the rank of mere “ canaille.”

Wonderful eyes they certainly have, only rather serpent-like
and satanic; teeth marvellously white and most perfect, only all
canine: hair blacker than the raven’s wing, if possible, but strong
and straight. So much for outward appearance.

But let no man say that their caves are unclean. I entered
five of them, one after another, to study and enjoy the strange
interiors, and found them all scrupulously neat, with striped cur-
tains screening each inner recess, like those that front the entrances.
And the blue smoke from each snug domestic hearth curls upwards
by a mysterious flue worked in some strange manner through the
solid earth of the mountain side, and comes out into the open air
where neither cave nor curtain is visible, wreathing upwards where
the prickly pear grows dense and wild. This I saw, and wish to
record.

Contréras is of opinion that these gipsy caves are as old as the
earliest days of Arab domination, and may ‘have existed in the

146 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

days of the Gothic empire. He gives as his reason that fragments
of ancient pottery were found beneath the earthen floors, &c. For
my part I should not wonder if they existed in the far more remote
days of Cathaginian rule, and even in the prehistoric era of
troglodyte man.* It was always an easy thing to excavate them
in such a soil: and, once excavated, there is no reason why they
should not last “ ad infinitum” in this marvellous climate. Nearly
all the tales of the Alhambra have reference to caves, and to bound-
less treasures, hidden in their innermost recesses. Here are caves,
and recesses, but the treasures, alas, are vanished into thin air!

One more word about the present occupants of these caves
before I leave. The master of one is by profession a clipper of
donkeys, and mules, and dogs /—for dogs, like their mistresses,
grow enormously plump in Andalusia, and are clipped into the
form of little lions, as in some parts of France.

The master of another cave is one of those gentlemen who
with us would go about the streets shouting “ saucepans and kettles
to mend!” but he was not at home when I called.

The pater-familias of a third is a blacksmith by day, and a
famous performer on the guitar after sunset. He is furthermore
the captain or king of the tribe, and leader of their symphonies :
and, in this capacity, we have him engaged for a concert this
evening, up near the hotel. He also was out when I called; but
the inner chamber of his perfectly trim dwelling revealed to me
a couch scooped out of the side wall, just like the “cunabula” of
the catacombs of St. Sebastian, and on that couch reclined a young:
man, obviously in the agonies of death: this was a nephew of
the harmonious blacksmith. He and another nephew had differed’
about something, a “puiialade” had followed, and the result
was, that one lay here, apparently beyond hope of recovery; the
other lay in prison, awaiting the probable “ garotta,” as the legal
consequences of his rash act. Still their royal uncle had made no
mention of this, when accepting the engagement for the concert '

As I left each cave, I had to “pay my footing” in silver, to
purchase an easy departure from the importunities of young and
old, and in fact to get away with what may be conventionally
called their good wishes.

After this my intelligent guide drove me to many favourite-
look-out points, each crowned with a monastery, each with the same-
magic diorama of mountains, and each also showing the bluff und

“ Although, in my notes of yesterday, I took for granted they were |the
work of their present denizens,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 147

beetling towers and cliffs of the Alhambra, plain, brown, and un-
prepossessing, affording not the least token of the unrivalled
beauty within.

And now let me tell you about our evening stroll to the “Gene-
ralife,” the “sans souci” of the sultans, in old Moorish days.

You approach by a long straight avenue bordered with
cypresses, not suggestive of mourning and death, but gaily trim-
med into obelisks, and arches, and festoons, and ornaments of every
shape. Intermixed through these are pomegranates, radiant with
scarlet flowers, and whole masses of oleanders, heavily laden
with fragrant violet bloom. The air is vocal with the song of
nightingales, answering one another from bush to bush. One

- little fellow I stood long to look at, flooding the air with loud song

from the very foot of a small shrub, puffed to double its natural
size in the effort, most truly as if

“ From every feather
In all its frame, it poured the notes!

Approaching the palace, the grounds are still more carefully kept ;
beds of superb magnolias display their waxy petals; and the
famous cypresses are here, at least five or six centuries old, but
still full of green life, and very much resembling the secular yew-
trees of Clontarf. Do not fear that I shall attempt to describe
the palace, with its white-washed colonnades, and portrait gallery
of likenesses, more or less fictitious: but climb with me the ter-
races, down which a streamlet from the mountain is cascading from
stage to stage: and hasten to the “‘silla del moro,” for already
the sun is setting. The undulating view is almost too beautiful,
and all suffused with violet. Just as I look, the sun goes down in
a blaze of glory, and then, for a few short moments, each profile
of mountain, and belfry, and mirador, becomes lighted up with a
golden outline, and the snow-streaks of the Sierra Nevada seem
turned to fire. Then all is over, even before the bells from church-
tower and convent can finish chiming the close of day. Such a
sight Claude Lorraine would have drank in on bended knee, and
thanked heaven for the vision! and to think that here they have
it every day in the week, and have it also shortly after;seven o'clock,
when we in Ireland are reasonably expecting at least another hour
of honest daylight! Darkness, with us, isa privation : with them,
when it comes, it is a blessing, to cool the maddened earth, and
refresh even man for the work and enjoyments of the morrow.
And now for the gipsy concert. The! singing was 8'mere

i

148 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

second edition of what I had heard at Seville, but here the per-
formers were “‘got up” in gaudy costume of scarlet and gold
braid and coins. The old man certainly played wonderfully,
‘during the intervals between the unintelligible songs, imitating
everything, fights, tempests, &c. But he seemed dull and heavy.
I suppose, after all, we must allow that he had some spark of
human feeling, like other men, and was thinking of his doomed
nephews: hence the weight that oppressed his soul.

The sky was still suffused with crimson when the performance
commenced. When I went out again, it was night, and the
countless lights of the city, and of the scattered hamlets throughout
the Vega, shone out, as if to rival the heavens.

Such a sight as this blind Homer had before his mental vision
when he ended his eighth canto of the “Iliad ” with the superb
description of the Trojan watch-fires: *

“ As when in Heaven, around the glittering moon
peep shine bright amid the breathless air,
And every crag, and every jutting
Stands boldly forth, and Susry er ade.
Even to the gates of heaven is opened wide
The boundless sky: shines each particular star
Distinct: joy fills the gazing shepherd's heart.
8o bright, ao thickly scattered o'er the plain,
Before the walls of Troy, between the ships
And Xanthus’ stream, the Trojan watch-fires blazed.”

Change Troy for Granada, change the ships and Xanthus’
‘stream for the circle of hills and the Rio Genil, and you have a
photograph of the scene, pictured by the prince of poets, and here
also there was a ten years’ siege, not less grand, nor less heroic !

. * .

On this, the third and leaving day of my too brief visit to
Granada I need scarcely tell you that I went again to see all that
had pleased me most in the Alhambra and the town.

I have found out why this hotel is called the “siete suelos.”
There is an old ruined tower in the garden, by which Boabdil went
out, the day he was leaving Granada for the last time. ' There is
a legend that he asked the Catholic monarchs to have it walled up,
and that they granted the favour, as if to gratify a foolish fancy,
and speed a parting guest. But there is also a legend, founded on
the number of caves in all this district, that beneath it is an
underground storey, and beneath that a second and a third, and so
on. In fact that there are seven storeys, one beneath another;
and that the lowest is full of gold and precious stones, heaped in
piles, and held under the spell of euchantment.

© Lord Derby's translation.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 149

Readers of Washington Irving’s tales of the Alhambra, will
remember the story of ‘‘ The Moor’s Legacy” whereby a poor water-
carrier, by means of a parchment scroll and a bit of taper, was
enabled to become enriched “ a discretion” in those necromantic
vaults : and to those who have not read them it is a pleasure in store.

As I strolled towards the town, with departure looming before
me, the tall trees and sparkling streamlets seemed fresher than
ever: and 1 noted fountains by the wayside, worked out of the
old ruins by the Emperor Charles V.; and vines that had been
left by the Moors, now growing for hundreds of feet wild along
the ground, sinuous and thick like Pythons.

Amongst other places, I visited the “Cartuja” (pronounced
cartoo-ha) to see its magic interior, and the noblest of views from
its door-steps. A thin veil of transparent haze suffused the vega
with a tinge of palest violet. The Sierra Elvira stood out against
the cloudless firmament, sharp and clearly defined in its every
detail. The snow-streaks of the Sierra Nevada, literally sparkled
in the glowing sunshine, and the guide pointed to where a dust-
cloud was just at that moment whirling in the blue distance: it
marked the spot where Boabdil turned round to cast one last glance
on the city, and the legend has christened it the “ oltimo sospiro
del moro.”

His words were: “ Ahi de mi! Alhama!” no doubt express-
ing the pent-up regret, for a fortress lost ten years before, whence
dated the downfall of the Moorish power. Alas! that the words
should have acquired a new meaning, in face of a recent ruin,
on which it is not for me to dwell !*

. . .

And now, good-bye to Granada. It is one of the few places
which I ever left with unmixed regret. To explore its glens and
mountains, its caves and running waters, to drink in again the
glory of its sunsets and the harmony of its groves, is a vow which
I register, in common with all who have seen it... Au revoir!

Picture me back in delightful Seville, and rambling through
its lustrous streets, all illumined for the festival of to-morrow. In
Northern Europe, an illumination means lines of jets: here, in
addition, it means parapets decked with choicest flowers, set in a
blaze of light, and drawing-rooms open from floor to ceiling, all
aglow with chandeliers.

é Not for me to dwell, because great sorrows become sacred, and nat to be

touched by profane hands, If hands of mine could cure thie one, willingly
would I give them both.

150 Dr. Ricards on Faith and Unbelief.

The whole Sevilian population is out in the streets, walking
and fanning, talking and rejoicing. And, amid the countless
crowd in the cathedral square you can descry long lines of small
low tables, each with its brazier fast frying little cakes in olive-
oil, to celebrate the vigil of the great feast. Between bright glares
and deep shadows, the whole scene is such as Rembrandt would
have loved to paint.

High above, the bells are pealing joyous tolls, flooding the
air with festive sound. And now a new surprise appears: just as
the clocks are striking the hour of eight, the whole glorious lace-
work of the giralda becomes a-blaze with light, and each flame-
shaped battlement of the cathedral stands out against a bright
back-ground of fire.

You look and wonder; and, while you marvel, there is a fresh
surprise; for, sparkling around the pinnacles of the cathedral,
and the golden glory of the giralda, fiery particles seem flutter-
ing in dangerous profusion, upwards, sideways, downwards, and
still there is no breeze. Gradually the sight becomes more defined :
those are the hawks and pigeons that nestle amidst those heights in
brotherly love. To them the loud pealing of the bells, and the
fierce glare of the battlements, is no amusement whatever : the
vigil of Corpus Christi is a night of terror. Like midges in their
zig-zag movements, they flutter away, then come back again and
again, settling on each topmost point that seems enveloped in a
very blaze of light, to rest for one maddening moment, and then
fly heavenwards again, from the seemingly scorching glare, and
the truly deafening noise.

Such is Seville, on the eve of Corpus Christi! ...

DR. RICARDS ON FAITH AND UNBELIEF.*

(HERE is no one, we believe, with a spark of zeal in his soul for
the temporal and eternal welfare of his neighbour, or of grati-
tude to God for the benefits He has lavished on our race, who, when
he looks abroad, even on the civilised portions of the world, does not
experience a feeling of deep sorrow for the present and grave appre-
hension for the future. Only now can we begin fully to realise the

* “Catholic Christianity and Modern Unbelief.” By the Right Rev. J. D.
Ricards, D.D., Bishop of Retimo and Vicar-A postolic of the Eastern Vicariate
of the Cape Colony: New York, Benziger Brothers,

Dr. Ricards on Faith and Unbelief. 151

awful effects of the great religious revolt of the sixteenth century—
only now are we beginning to taste the bitterness of its matured fruit
As heat and light remain with us for a considerable time after the sun
has gone down, as plants appear to flourieh for a time after the root
has been eaten away, so did the effects of true religion linger amidst
rebellious nations even after the true cause had been removed and
destroyed. By degrees, however, the truth has been making itself
more and more felt, and now those who cling to what little of true
religion remained in the systems of the various so-called reformers,
are thoroughly frightened at the results to which the principles
of these men have logically led and were bound sooner or later
logically to lead. Inside the “old Church,” as the author of
the work before us fondly calls her, there has been no fright ndeed,
but bitter sorrow and bleeding of heart there has been. It would be
amusing, were the matter not so serious, to read over the anticipatory
notices of the Protestant South African Press which heralded the
publication of Bishop Ricard’s work, and which the publishers have
forwarded us along with the published work itself. There, as plainly as
if stated in so many words, we have the admission—that Protestantism
is absolutely powerless against the advancing foe of Modern Unbelief ;
and its adherents are now willing to receive, nay, anxiously look for,
help and protection from the Mother Church—help which, in the
memory of men not very old, they would have spurned with haughty
indignation. Common cause, they now cry out, must be made against
the common enemy.

We in Ireland, thank God, know comparatively little of the evil
here mentioned. More, however, than the echo of it has reached us.
Just ten years ago Mr. Tyndall chose the platform afforded him at
Belfast from which to proclaim for the first time in distinct terms his
rejection of Christianity, and his adhesion to the main tenets of
materialism. Such an unexpected storm, however, did he raise about
his head, and such a crushing refutation did he call forth,* that neither
he nor anyone else has since made bold openly to proclaim again the
same principles. Yet the evil is going about secretly, “like the serpent
it goeth basely upon the belly and not upon the feet,” so that even in
Catholic Ireland we cannot be too much upon our guard.

How is this dreadful evil of Unbelief getting propagated? Not
many apostles are seen going about haranguing the multitudes. Things
are much changed from the days of the old heresies and even from
the days of Luther and Knox. The press is now the devil’s chief
instrument. By its means is he disseminating his principles with a
thoroughness that would have been altogether incredible a century or
two ago. By means of the press, then, must the enemy be mainly
met. At the present day elmost everyone can read and it is quite
certain that everyone who can read will and must read something

* See, for instance, the “ IRIsn MoNTHLT ” for 1874 and 1875.

152 Dr. Ricards on Faith and Unbelief.

or other. To those accustomed to strict thought and metho d ther
is little danger to be apprehended, at least from the argumenta-
tive portions of the works by which this vile propagandism is carried
on. As a rule there is little pretence of logic in them. Yet all the
same are they doing their work and perhaps all the more effectively.
The multitude is easy to convince in the direction of freer scope for
nature and larger licence. Yet are they also open to comparatively
easy conviction even towards what is good and difficult if it is properly
placed before them. In fact they may be said to be largely in the
hands of those who first catch their ears. This we assert while hold-
ing at the same time that without the abundant grace of God, multi-
tudes will never bemoved to embrace what is difficult to nature nor
cling to it from merely natural motives. The Christian religion was
not and never will be spread by merely natural power. Now for anyone
whose lot it has been to turn over the pages of the great theologians
and writers of the Church, it is terribly painful to inspect the literary
food on which the world of the present day is being fed. There, drawn
from the Holy Scriptures, from the writings of the Fathers and
Doctors of the Church, and from reason itself, we have stores of truth,
of which if but a tithe could be made known to thousands upon
thousands of the victims of Agnostic rhodomantaders, what is known
as the Christian world would present a very different picture from
that which now meets our eyes. It is a painful thing, we repeat, to
take one’s seat in a library of Catholic theology, and to feel with the
certainty of conviction that under one’s eyes are treasures of knowledge
—stands of armour, which if they could only be communicated to the
heads and hands of millions outside the walls of the room in which one
is sitting would with God's grace be more than sufficient to spread peace
where there is now no peace, and to rout beyond recovery all the
emissaries of the Evil One.

If these thoughts spring up with startling clearness in the minds
even of ordinary individuals, who know the havoc that is being worked
in the world chiefly from reading and report, with what intense force
must they come home to a zealous Bishop of the Church, who for
thirty-five years has been labouring for the spread of true Christianity
in distant lands, and whose painful lot it has been, not to hear of, but
to see with his own eyes, the progress of the evil of which we have
spoken. In the colonies, with the state of which Dr. Ricards is
intimately acquainted the matter prosents itself under, if possible, a
still more painful aspect. There are to be met crowds of “ poor imita-
tors of polished ungodliness,” whose sole staple of religion consists
in what they can glean of the harvest of errors and absurdities reaped
in their mother-country—whose pride it is to follow as far as possible
the current of home-thought in whatsoever direction it may be tending.

This pitiable state of things has, as the zealous and warm-heatted

Dr. Ricards on Faith and Unbelief. 158

bishop tells ue, been weighing on his mind for many years. With
the love of a true apostle in hie heart for the good of all men, he has
looked around for some means to let a ray of true Christian light into
the minds and hearts of the erring and duped multitudes with whom
he has himself come into contact. From a careful and lengthened
study of the state of the public mind outside the Church, with which
he shows a thorough intimacy in all its ramifications, he became con-
vinced that a work having for its prominent characteristic grave solidity
would be altogether lost—it would never be read, at least by those for
whom it was chiefly intended. Neither, he felt, would a work of strictly
controversial character be of any avail. The world is weary of con-
troversy, nay, may we not add that to controversy is due much of the
Agnosticism of our day? A book to do the work at which the bishop.
aimed must be somehow or other made popular. Anything like dry-
ness or too close and severe argumentation would be fatal. No
echolasticism must appear in it, not however for the reason assigned by
one of the bishop's Protestant reviewers, because it is ‘old and tire-
some,” but in condescension to the present generation of readers, who
are quite incapable of appreciating or following a method eo strictly
logical. So much for the method. As to the matter; in addition to
his own judgment he was told, as he informs us in his preface, “by a
man of more than ordinary powers of observation and intelligence,
who had travelled over every part of the United States, and through
most of the British colonies,” and whose “duties gave him an insight
into the religious wants of the people he visited,” that a book which
would treat in a popular way the religious theories now so fashionable
outside the Catholic Church, and contrast them with orthodox teaching
would be welcome and useful to many. “ I distrusted exceedingly my
powers,” he tells us, “ to accomplish a task, not altogether foreign to
my experience: but on consideration that it might help ina small way
even to promote the honour and glory of God, I accepted it.”

It will be observed that the style of work thus projected, formed
quite a new departure in the domain of religious works. It must be
suited ad captandum and must at the same time be not only thoroughly
orthodox, as emanating from the pen of a bishop of the Church, but
must also give a comprehensive view of the whole teaching of Christ's
Church, as well as point out the contrast between the “ Faith once
delivered to the saints,” and the conflicting theories and scientific
guesses of the present age. The idea of the work is certainly an
excellent one, and points to a want in the religious literature of the
present day. We have abundance of most excellent works treating of
some one phase or branch of Catholic doctrine. Many very learned
works there are also which, though they treat of the greater portion
of Catholic doctrine, are not, however, suited, from various causes, to
do the work aimed at by Dr. Bicards. Either they are too learned for

154 Dr. Ricarde on Faith and Unbelief.

the general public, or too lengthy and costly, or they are written in a
atyle ungrateful to the modern palate, which in the matter of literature
is not a little forced and fastidious.

How, then, has Dr. Ricards succeeded in the difficult task he under-
took with such promising modesty? Erxcellently, we believe. Inthe
first place, the moderate price of his work brings it within the reach
of all. In the next place, it is written in an easy and flowing style.
If the style is the man, then, from the perusal of his work, we
should pronounce Dr. Ricards to be not only a learned and holy bishop,
of all embracing charity and of tender sympathy for the erring and
deceived, but also a polished and accomplished gentleman. You cannot
read a dozen pages of his work till you are thoroughly satisfied that
you are in contact with a most honest and sincere man. He puts you
at once at your ease in his company; and you listen on and on, charmed
by his straightforward clearness, his wide experience, his beautiful
imagery and his wealth of illustration drawn from almost every con-
<eivable source. A glance over the very full index appended to the
work, will, we think, surprise anyone who remembers that this is the
work of a laborious colonial Bishop and Vicar-Apostolic. Lastly, as
tothe matter and method of the work. Considering its object, we
think the choice and arrangement of the material most happy. Dr.
Ricards believes, and most justly, that what is needed at the present
-day is to give a full and comprehensive view of Catholicity, to put it
before the mind of the reader in all its fulness and harmony, to with-
draw the puzzled mind from trifling critical difficulties and to contrast
its whole beautiful economy with that of any other sect or ism that
-clamours for attention. This method he has followed throughout the
entire work with striking consistency and success. Nor while doing so
has he been ever in any single instance that we have noticed, though
treating of the most difficult subjects, even remotely flippant or super-
ficial. In this, precisely, we believe, we see the great triumph -of his
work, The ordinary reader will never be disheartened, while the
initiated will see that he has touched everything with the hand of an
adept. It is a book which may be read over and over again without
exhausting its meaning. Those who may be desirous of obtaining
with ease a view of the state of religious thought all over the world
could not refer to a better source.

We should be glad to give some extracts from the work, and
intended to do so, that our readers might be able to judge for them-
selves of Dr. Ricards’ style and method, but we feel that we have
already exceeded the space we can fairly claim for our notice. Some
might expect to find a chapter devoted to the need there is of an
Intallible Teacher and to the irrefragable proofs that such a Teacher
actually exists, but the author so frequently refers to this subject,
it is so clearly the lesson to be gathered from the entire work, that the
necessity of formally dealing with it is quite obviated. In conclusion,

The Old Thorn.

155

‘we earnestly wish that this work may have the widest circulation, and
we know of no book better calculated to strengthen the faith of
Catholics or to win over those who with bleeding feet are straying at
a distance from the one fold of the One True Shepherd.

The book is very tastefully got up, and clearly printed in bold
spaced type, so as to render its perusal both easy and agreeable.

THE OLD THORN.
(Song)

BY GIR STEPHEN E. DE VERE, BART.

"TRWAS on a summer morn,
In the merry month of May,
‘We eat beneath the aged Thorn
‘That shades the cloister gray.

I told my love: she looked
Aside, nor word she said ;

But a pele glow like sunset snow
Her neck and brow o'erspread.

With cainty foot she traced
‘Small circles in the sand ;—

Then suddenly she turned, and placed

In mine her own dear hand ;

And from her dark eyes came
A flood of light divine, .
A vivid glance of liquid flame

‘That hid itself in mine.

Believe not those who swear
‘That love is still untrue,

Fickle and fugitive as air,
‘And fleeting as the dew;

In sunshine, storm, or frost,
‘We've lived and loved together,

In peace and hope, or tempest-tost,
In fair or clouded weather.

‘When flowers bedeck each May,
We sit beneath that Thorn,

Aud bless the ancient cloister gray,
And that fair summer morn.

Vou. x1, No. 141.

NEW BOOKS.

“ A work of modest pretensions, but of great practical usefulness,
is ‘‘Leseons in Domestic Science,” by F. M. Gallaher (Dublin:
Browne and Nolan). Though this is the first time, as far as we can
recall, that Miss Gallaher’s name appears in full on a title-page, she
is well known to have worked with great diligence and success in more
than one department of literature. Her literary skill has here turned
to tho best account, the materials gathered with great industry from
many quarters. Her stores of practical information on all questions
of domeastio utility are communicated in the clearest and most attractive
manner. The most learned chapters are not those which please us
best, but the ones in which the minutest mysteries of housekeeping
are discussed, and all those household duties and arrangements on
which depends so largely the happiness of home. For young and old
of the housekeeping sex there is much profitable reading in this plea-
eant handbook, which is sure to run through numerous editions, and
to be in permanent request. We agree with one of its reviewers that,
if every schoolgirl would master (as she easily and agreeably might)
the stores of useful house-lore enshrined in this wonderful book, a
great deal would have been gained for her own mental and bodily
health, as well as for the domestic comfort of her future household.

‘We can cordially recommend to anyone in search of stories for
children the handsome reprint which Messrs. James Duffy & Sons
have just issued of Canon Schmid’s tales, translated more than forty
years ago by the late Dr. C. W. Russell, then a young professor at
Maynooth. We have examined the translation anew, with renewed
admiration, for its grace and fidelity. Ten of the best of these stories
are given in this third edition, under the common title of “Trust in
God.” The good German performed a fine work of zeal in writing
such good and interesting stories.

In last month’s gossip about new books we expressed some doubt
whether Miss Mulholland’s Walking Trees would receive as much praise
from the London critics as other works of hers published in London. The
Spectator, at least, is able to understand that something good can come
out of Dublin ; and, in its issue of December 27, begins an appreciative
notice, with the very truthful statement that “ Miss Mulholland has a
very ingenious and graceful fancy at her command.” The Weekly
Register says that “ all the stories in the volume are marked by the
author’s fancy, feeling, and humour. For juvenile readers she has,
perhaps, written nothing better.” At home United Jreland says “ that
no author or authoress of our time is blessed with such a happy

Notes on New Books. 187

faculty of writing bright things for simple imaginations as Miss M ul-
holland, and we know we are saying a great deal when we declare
that the work now under notice surpasses anything she has previously
written in this line of literature.”

The critic just quoted remarks very truly and judiciously of “ Lina’s
Tales,” by Mrs. Frank Pentrill—a pretty book which we introduced
to our readers in January—that “though there is no attempt to limit
their vocabulary in the manner usual in juvenile literature, the stories
are prettily told, the plots exceedingly simple, and their incidents
touching. They give little glimpses of French rural and peasant life,
in a very natural and picturesque way.” The Weekly Register says that
«French provincial life bas afforded Mrs. Pentrill the scenes and sub-
jects of the two pretty stories for children, bound together, as ‘Lina’s
Tales.’ The author is familiar with the surroundings of which she
treata, and shows tender and affectionate feeling in tracing the fortunes
-of her little personages.”

It is not right to confound such books as the two we have named
with the silly and badly written books that Catholic publishers, like
-others, sometimes give to the world. We are sorry to have to speak
unfavourably of the style and execution of “ Earl Nugent’s Daughter,”
by Miss Agnes Stewart (Dublin: James Duffy & Sons). At an Irish
election, not very long ago, the unpopular candidate was supposed to
be a very bad speaker, and one of the orators on the other side
threatened to secure a hearing for him if his supporters did not behave
themselves properly. On this cruel principle we were about to quote
tho two first sentences of Miss Stewart’s preface, which take up thirty-
eight lines, with only asingle semicolon between them, and in which
“influence” is governed (as we used to eag in our parsing days) by the
verb “ show” eleven lines off. Miss Stewart has published a dozen
books: how can such portentous clumsiness in word-building have
managed to survive this long experience? The subject of the present
volume is a good one for a story ; but it would be wrong to imply that
much has been made of it here.

From the same publishers comes “Watch and Hope: a Tale of the
‘Wars of the Roses,” by Miss A. O'Neill Daunt. We suppose the
writer to be the daughter of a well-known Irish veteran. Why did
he not choose her theme from Irish history P This tale seems to be as
‘stiff and dry as such quasi-historical tales generally are.

How many of our readers have heard of South Bend? It would
never have had the honour of being mentioned to them now, if it
were not the nearest town to the University College of Notre Dame,
in the State of Indiana, The very obscurity of the nearest town
makes this great establishment of the Fathers of the Holy Cross more
telf-concentrated. A ‘tall tree that stands alone in the middle of a
Gield is most likely to attract the electric fluid when the\air is charged

158 Notes on New Books.

with it; and somewhat in the same way this rural and secluded seat
of learning is the centre and focus of intellectual activity. A new
proof-sheet is quite an event in such a studious, peaceful, out-of-the-
way place. It is thus that we may account for the patient zeal which
keeps up so many literary undertakings—for instance, the excellent
“Scholastic Annual,” of which the tenth volume has just been sent
to us. i

Nothing is said on the title-page or elsewhere to imply that
« Lenten Meditations on the Passion and Death of our Divine Saviour,”
by the Rev. 8. Fieu (Dublin: James Duffy & Sons), is a translation ;.
nor is a foreign origin betrayed, as far as we can ‘see, by awkward
idiome. The meditations seem to be all very solid and useful, keeping:
very close to the facts set down in Holy Scripture, and written in a
very clear, unaffected style.

Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son have issued in their Shilling Series a
new edition of the Life of Pope Pius IX., by John Francis Maguire,
which the Right Rev. Dr. Patterson has revised and brought down to-
the accession of Leo the Thirteenth.

The same publishers have brought out, in a neat little volume, an
account of Don Bosco and his Work, by Mrs, Raymond Barker. At
page 541 of the eleventh volume of our own Magazine will be found a
very interesting account of this holy Italian priest, from the graceful
pen of Mrs. Charles Martin.

‘We blame ourselves for not having given a speedier welcome to
the first volume of The League of the Cross Magasine (London :
Burns and Oates). The twelve penny numbers of this excellent little
magazine form a very neat and very entertaining book—stories,
pictures, articles, poems, paragraphs, all bearing on the sin and folly:
of drunkenness, the wisdom and happiness of temperance. If we were.
finding fault at all, it would be that the editor, Mr. James Britten,
makes everything bear so directly on the one point. In the stories.
and other papers there is none of that pharisaical, preachifying tone-
which spoils the temperance advocacy of many worthy and zealous
men. The succession of stories isthe most attractive item in the table
of contents, with such authors as Miss Rosa Mulholland, Mrs. Charles.
Martin, “Theo Gift,’ Miss Frances Kershaw, Mra. Parsons, Mrs.
Frank Pentrill, and Miss Cassie O'Hara. The only masculine story-
teller is the Rev. W. H. Cologan, and the only one who does not give
her name in full is “M. M.” Subscribers to The League of the Oross
Magasine get the full worth of their penny.

Messrs. Burns and Oates have issued a cheap edition of Mr. A.
Wilmot's “Story of the Scottish Reformation.” Their name is also.
on the title-page of the seventh edition of Father Lambert's “ Notes
on Ingersoll,” a very noisy American infidel, These “ Notes” are

Notes on New Books. 159

‘exceedingly pungent and clever, and have won high praise from
Protestant journalists as well as Catholics,

Father Ravignan’s “ Last Retreat,” given in a Carmelite Convent
of Paris, has been very well translated by F. M‘Donagh Mahony, and
very well brought out by Mesers Burns & Oates. Both the original
and the translation ought to begin with a page of explanation as to
how far this Retreat is given in the exact words of Father Ravignan.
‘The translator has done his work skilfully—we venture on a pronoun,
though uncertain whether the initial F stands for “Francis” or
“‘ Frances.” There are, however, mistakes and faulty expressions which -
‘would have been easily corrected by anyone familiar with the Spiritual
Exercises of St. Ignatius.

“The Catholic Directory for England” (London: Burns & Oates)
is, as usual, punctual in its appearance, and admirably compiled and
printed. ‘Talis cum sis, utinam noster esses.” This word of weloome
might have been inserted in our January Number.

The Rev. Thomas Magrath, D.D., one of the learned professors
of Holy Cross College, Clonliffe, has published an extremely able
pamphlet on “Catholic Philosophy and the Royal University Pro-
gramme” (Dublin: M.H. Gill & Son). It isan important contribution
‘to the controversy which Dr. Magrath himself began some months ago
tin The Irish Ecclesiastical Record. Even readers who are not competent
to enter into the very difficult questions discussed can appreciate the
-clearnees, calmness, and vigour of the Professor's polemical style.

‘The third very cheap edition was recently issued of the late Mr. A.
M. Sullivan’s “ Speeches and Addresses in Parliament,on the Platform,
and at the Bar.” He was a true orator, worthy of the country of

“Curran, Grattan, O'Connell, Meagher, Butt, and Father Burke.

The great ecclesiastical publisher, Pustet of Ratisbon, New York,
and Cincinnati, has sent to us across the Atlantic two new works of
Monsignor Capel: “‘Catholic’ an essential and exclusive attribute of
the True Church,” and a “ Rejoinder to the Reply of Dr. Hopkins.”
‘The latter is of a more temporary and personal character ; the former
is a work of solid and permanent value, worthy of the author's repu-
tation as a controversialist.

Benziger Brothers (New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis), have
sent us “ Hints on Letter Writing, for the use of academies and for
self-instruction, adapted from the French of the Author of ‘Golden
Sands,’ by Miss Ella M‘Mahon. In spite of the American lady’s
adaptations a great part of the book remains terribly Frenchy, and
we think it will be found much more amusing than useful. Some of
the examples are very good, such as Manzoni’s brief letter of introduc-
tion. ‘The bearer of this note is one of the many who desire your
-Soquaintance and one of the few who deserve it.”

160 Notes on New Books.

Denvir's “Penny National Irish Almanack,” which is published
in Liverpool, gives a very interesting selection of Irish events, ancient
and modern, and is altogether a very meritorious pennyworth. Bo is
the “Child's Irish History in Rhyme,” by Francis Fahy, published
by the Southwark Branch of the Junior Irish Literary Olub—though
Mr. Fahy’s pieces in “ Emerald Gems ' would have made us expect to
see this good idea carried out somewhat better.

Yet another new prayerbook! This is indeed called expressly
“The New Franciscan Manual and Seraphic Treasury of Prayers and
Devotions.” The prayerbook itself fills six hundred pages : 150 pages
for the epistles and gospels of the year, and a large selection of the
Oratorian hymns in eighty pages. The speciality of the book, its
aiferentia maxime propria, is the fulness with which it gives all that
relates to the Third Order of St. Francis, It has been compiled by
the Rev. Jarlath Prendergast, 0.S.F., and published by Messrs James
Duffy & Sons of Dublin.

The same publishers have lately issued a third edition of Father
Casey's popular poem on Intemperance, in which the evils of drink
are denounced in vigorous verse. The gravity of the metre and of
the argument in this poem is relieved by an appendix of lighter tem-
perance songs and verses, many of which might he used with great
effect at the social gatherings of our people.

A Protestant lady of Kingstown, Miss Barret, has compiled a
“Guide to Dublin Charities” (Dublin: Hodges & Figgis), in which
she has, we believe, taken pains to give fully and fairly all the
statistics she could procure about the various charitable institutions of
our metropolis. Many of the institutions which are classed as ‘“ un-
sectarian” are certainly unsuitable for Catholics. One thing that
strikes a casual reader of this “Guide” is the large number of
foundations coming down from the persecution times and providing
for various wants of the humbler classes of Protestants. Needy
Protestants are vastly leas numerous, and the institutions for their
relief are far more numerous and better endowed. Wealthy Catholics
have as yet made no attempt at remedying this inequality, even in
proportion to their means.

The Inaugural Address of Mr. Robert Donovan, as Auditor of the
Literary and Historical Society of Catholic University College,
Stephen’s-green, Dublin, has been published by Mesers Browne &
Nolan. It seems to keep to its first title “Irish Genius in Literature”
more than to its subtitle, “ A Forecast of its Work in the Future.”
The Address is well thought out and written with elegance and spirit.

‘We can at present devote only a paragraph to two French Lives,
exquisitely printed by Desclée, de Brouwer, et Cie, of Lille. Father
de Curley, 8.J., gives the name of Mére de Saumaice, Blessed Margaret

Taking Cold. 161

Mary’s Superior, to a new study of the revelations at Paray-le-Monial
and the Devotion to the Sacred Heart. Father Peter Pouplard, 8.J.,
publishes through the same firm a Life of Victoire de Saint Luc, one
of the Nuns of the Retreat at Quimper, under the title of “ Une
Martyre aux derniers jours de la Terreur.” .We must use these edify-
ing works hereafter.

TAKING COLD.
BY MISS FRANCES KERSHAW.

COMPLAINT by no means confined to chill, changeable

autumn or winter, but “ in season ” all the year round. The

grilling experience of real summer days is to the full as‘fruitful
in colds as any other period.

A cold is a provokingly uncomfortable, inexplicable thing,
which “comes on” and “goes off,” and acts ‘upon our interior
arrangements generally like a grater on a nutmeg. It is that
aggravating state of existence which we are pleased to describe as
our “noses being ready to run away,” and during which we come
to the conclusion that such a catastrophe might be almost regarded
as a blessing. It is a period when all our words are as indistinct
and muffled as must have been the first attempts at conversation
after the confounding of the human lip at Babel. It is a time
when “ the grasshopper!” in the guise of our dearest friend is “a
burden ;” when our sky is one cloud, and our day darkness to be
felt. Then all our eyes are tearful, yet not with tears. Our heads
are heavy with nought else than the burden of this invisible
“man of the mountains;” and we ourselves are half-alive, half-
awake, wholly ill-tempered. Such is that commonplace, insignifi-
cant complaint—a cold !

How comes it P First, simply by “ taking a chill.” We walk
through “lush meadows” in a frame of mind more poetic than
sane. We indulge in pleasing little expeditions in the rain. We
go out-of-doors in precisely the same amount of clothing that we
wore indoors. We toast ourselves comfortably before a roasting
fire, until we find to our cost how great a matter a little fire
kindleth, and cry out with George Coleman’s stout bachelor :

162 Taking Cold.

“T’ve been so hanged hot, that I’m sure I've caught cold!”
We sit in a room with a good fire; let it die out, and still sit there
keeping warm upon credit of the heat that was and is not. We slip
out with exaggerated politeness into the cold air or rain to shut
somebody's carriage-door.. And, as the reward of these and the
like antics, we awake on the morrow sneezing, coughing, and
stuffed-up in head and chest. “I’ve got an awful cold somehow ! ”
we admit mournfully.

‘When we try to find the best method of treating a cold, we
come somewhat to loggerheads, as do our men of medicine. I sup-
pose it is true from Father Noe’s date upwards “ colds and heat”
have not ceased; then why in all these weary centuries has not
the medical mind been able to discover an adequate remedy P

Doctors can treat for infectious or contagious diseases of any
magnitude with manifest success, but before this simple, unimport-
ant general ailment they must sit with folded arms. And mean-
while we suffer on.

“ Well,” somebody suggests, “ try quinine.”

We do, and our woes are multiplied, The cold remains as
obstinate as ever, but in addition we have a frightful headache,
nose-bleeding, and general inside-out expression of interior.

“Well,” advises someone else (like other things advice is
cheap and abundant in proportion as it is valueless), “try keeping
to one room for several days; atmosphere always 60°, and be
careful to avoid draughts.”

Thank you! and leave our “ one room” tender and “ nesh,” to
take the first fresh cold that chances to come our way! Besides,
to shut off duty-steam for some days, to sacrifice everyone and
everything to self and a cold, our busy, sociable, everyday life
won’t hear of it—might as well tell a lunatic that a visit to the
moon would be beneficial to him! It might, or it might not, for
he would never have the privilege of trying it.

“Try camphor,” suggests some friendly old maid.

Bo we do. Anything in any way practicable! Don’t feel a
bit better after the camphor than we did before. Not to hurt her
feelings, though, we admit that we don’t feel any worse.

“Don’t make such a fuss about a cold!” snubs an unsympe-
thetic relative.

So we follow the plan of making light of our. ailment, doing
our day’s work just as usual, going on our common way.

Result—eomething worse than a cold—an inclination to ine
fluenza or bronchitis. We are forced to lay up, nurse and doctorise.

—_

Lord O'Hagan. 163

You should have nipped it in the bud,” someone remarks
contemptuously.

Capital, as a theory, but unhappily faulty in practice. A cold
won't be nipped !

‘What is our advice, then to those who have taken cold P

Alas, only this! Grin, and bear it; and if you can’t grin,
bear it without grinning. Being a cold, take it coolly, and if you
can’t take it coolly, take it as coolly as you can.

Don’t look for any sympathy to be shown you. A cold is not
in the list of afflictions for which pity should be shown from a
friend.

Take all precautions possible without overdoing them. Don’t
despise an umbrella in a storm, or a rug at a picnic—picnic grass
is invariably wet. Don’t let your absent fits suffer the fire to go
out. Avoid the company of mists and fogs. Exclude draughts
as far as may be. Harden yourself, but with moderation; and
expect colds more or less to your life’s end.

LORD O'HAGAN.

FATHER Ryder of the Birmingham Oratory, in an exquisite sonnet

which this Magazine had the privilege of first putting into print,
contrasts “The Two Mementos” of the Mass, noticing how quickly
the priest’s personal friends pass from the memento of the living
which precedes the consecration to the other memento which comes
after it.

é And some are living still, but ah! gray head,
How full is thy Memento of the Dead!”

‘This second memento seems to be filling up for some of us more quickly
than usual. Writing while the mortal remains of our Archbishop,
Edward Cardinal Mao Cabe, are resting in St. Kevin’s Chapel on their
way to their more permanent but not final resting-place in our beauti-
tul Glasnevin—writing, too, while every newspaper brings us war
telegrams with tidings of the death of some whose names are familiar
to us and of hundreds whose names are unknown—we are more liable
to be impressed by the transitory nature of this life which that holy;
kind-hearted, charitable, and most priestly prelate, in the opening
words of the Pastoral addressed to us, not from his death-bed but from

164 Lord O'Hagan.

his coffin, described as “ a mere speck between the gulf of nothingness.
from which we were drawn and the shoreless ocean of eternity to which
we are hastening.”

It so chances, moreover, that just at this time several have passed
away who might separately claim a commemoration in these pages.
Father Joseph Lentaigne, S.J., is one of these, and another is Father
John Francis Shearman, a most amiable man and most edifying priest,
and enthusiastically devoted from boyhood to the mysteries of Irish
antiquarian lore. Another name which has a right to a place in our
public Memento of the Dead is that of Morgan O'Connell, the Liberator’s.
son, to whose very great and generous kindness our Magazine owes
such precious contributions as the great O'Connell s earliest letters and
diaries, and many other unpublished “ O'Connell Papers” which we
have still to put in order for the printer.

During the same night—February 11, 1885—and almost at the
same moment as Cardinal MacCabe, Richard Baptist O'Brien, Dean of
Limerick, breathed his last. The help he gave to the Intaz Montaiy
was, strangely enough, to be its first storyteller. Another constant
contributor to the same early volumes of the Magazine has just
ended also a holy life by a holy death—Lady Georgiana Fullerton
—whose obituary, written by an intimate friend, will appear in
our next number, and will enter into more minute particulars than.
Father Gallwey’s “ Funeral Discourse” or Father Coleridge's ‘‘ Me-.
morial Words.”

Yet before all these the name prefixed to this note has a right to-
our preference, both on public and on private grounds, as far as these-
can be separated in a man whose public character, more than is gene-
rally the case, was bound up closely with his personal qualities. Onoe-
when a memorial was erected to Lord Belfast, who had shown in his
short career an earnest interest in Irish talent and in everything Irish,
Lord O'Hagan (then Thomas O’Hagan, Q.C.) spoke of the amiable
young nobleman as “ the good and gracious Lord Belfast.” Our per-
sonal feelings towards the good and gracious Lord O'Hagan are such
that we dare not trust to our own words, but shall adopt those of
the Dublin correspondent of The Weekly Register, who writes on the
7th of February :—

“The news of the death of Lord O'Hagun has been received here with feel~
ings of deep regret. Besides the admirers of his remarkable talenta and excep-
tionally brilliant and honourable career, he had troops of friends in his native
country who loved the man for his own sake, and enjoyed hia success as if it
had been something personal to themselves. The good reason for this was that
as he rose in the world he never ignored an old soquaintance, still lees forgot or-
ceased to be warmly interested in an old friend, or in even the children or rela—
tives of an old friend. So kindly were his impulses and so large was his heart
that people who knew him only a little sometimes ascribed to manneriam what
‘was the outward sign of simple, genuine, good feeling.” On the occasion of his

Winged Words. 165

advancement to the peerage the Court Journal spoke of his “golden manners,”
but never were golden manners more truly the expression of unfeigned amiability

of character. In practice as in faith he was a strong and fervent Catholic, his
charities and kindnesses were innumerable, and in every domestic relation of life
he may be said to have been perfect, beginning with the days of which his con-
temporaries tell, when he was a most tender son to a very devoted mother.

Lord O'Hagan ‘was the first Catholic Lord Chancellor in Ireland since the time
of James IL”

Gratitude bids us add that Lord O'Hagan felt a kind interest in
the fortunes of this little Magazine, and proved in a very substantial
way his generous readiness to become its Meocenas, if it had needed a
patron, as literary enterprises used to do, and if it had not found its
best and sufficient patronage in the favour of Irish readers (and some
others) at home and far away, in whose hearts these sincere and simple
words may help to excite an affectionate interest in the memory of the
first Catholic Lord Chancellor since the Penal days, and in the future
of the boy of years so tender as hardly to know yet that he bears the:
title of Thomas Townely, second Baron O’Hagan.

WINGED WORDS.

1. Why are not more gems from our great authors scattered over
the country? Great books are not in everybody’s reach; and though
it is better to know them thoroughly than to know them only here and
there, yet it is a good work to give a little to those who have neither
time nor means to get more. Let every bookworm, when in any fra-
grant scarce old tome he discovers a sentence, a story, an illustration,
that does his heart good, hasten to give it,—Coleridge.

“EI,
And quoted odes, and Féin five words long,
‘That, on the stretched forefloger of all time,
Sparkle for ever.—T'ennyson.

8. I weep when I consider what I am, but I weep still more for
having lived so long without weeping.—St. Teresa.

4, O my God, what shall I do in order not to undo all that thy
grace has done for me?—The Same.

5. The happiness of our lives depends much less on the actual
value of the work done than on the spirit in which we do it.—Zhe late

Prince Leopold,

166

AN IRISH MELODY.
IN ENGLISH AND LATIN.
LL
The Minstrel Boy.

Y= Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
Bis father’s eword he has girded on,
‘And his wild harp slung behind him.
“ Land of cong!” said the warrior bard,
“Thoagh all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.”

‘The Minstrel fell !—but the fooman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;

‘The harp he loved ne'er epokeugain,
For he tore its chords asuader,

And said, “ No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery !

‘Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
“They shall never sound in slavery,”

I.
Translated by J. G.

Feros in arma puer, sublimi carmine Vates,
Mors qua bacchetur conspiciendus erit ;
Accinzit lateri genitor quem gesserat ensem,
‘Atque humeris habilem magna sonare lyram.
“ Pieridum tellus,” miles sic ille canorus,
“ Prodiderit patriam csetera turba suam,
Hic tamen haud deerit qui te custodiat ensis,
Hujus nec citharse destituere modis,”

“Magnanimum telis valuerunt sternere vatem,
Non valuere hostes subdere corda jugo;

Et pia testudo tacuit, tacitura per svum,
Fregit enim chordas ipsa Poeta suas,

Talia vociferans ; ‘ Nec tu violabere vinclis,
Cui Mars est somper, cui celebratus Amor ;

Fortibus atque bonis fiunt tua carmina solis,
Ne decores ullo carmine vervitium.”

( 167 )

MARCELLA GRACE.

BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

Avraon ov “ musten's nistoRy,” “THe WICKED WOODS OF TODEREETTL,” “ XLDERGOWAN,”
“THE WALKING TREES AND OTHRR TALES,” 2T0., ETC.

CHAPTER VIII.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

Burrise forlorn in the old house, alone in the world, Marcella
looked back amazed over the events of the last few months of her
life and felt as if all living was a dream, and nothing real which
humanity can touch or behold. Up to the night when she had
sheltered and protected the stranger whom she now knew as Bryan
Kilmartin, her existence had in its hard monotony been real enough,
but the many strange vicissitudes through which she had passed
since then, looked now to her memory like the flying phantas-
magoria of clouds over the head. The stern fact remained that
her father was gone, and that she should have neither care for,
nor protection from him more in this world.

She returned at once to her old life of sewing from morning
till night to keep body and soul together, and as she stitched in
solitude her thoughts often went back to Mrs. O'Kelly, and she
wondered with a sore heart why rich people should be so whimsical
and strange, so kind one moment, so cruel the next. She had
believed that Mrs. O’Kelly had loved her, and yet she had allowed
her to face her terrible sorrow alone, to struggle with poverty at
such a moment, to nurse her sick and bury her dead without help
or sympathy from a friend. What a little part of the generosity
that had dressed her so finely, amused her, taken her about the
world during those unreal weeks would have sufficed to have eased
and soothed the suffering of the last ten days. It would have
been better she had never known her, thought Marcella, in tears ;
better she had stayed by her father during those last weeks of his
life, more wholesome for hereelf if she had never tasted the sweets
of refined living and of gentle company. The only good she had
gained, thought the girl, as she plied her needle, with tear-dimmed
eyes, was that she had been allowed to see her hero again, had
heard something of his life, had learned his name, and had been

Vo. xnt., No 142. April, 1885, 14

168 MMarcolla Grace.

honoured by the clasp of his hand. It seemed to her now, look-
ing back on that enchanted season of enjoyment, that this wonder-
ful episode in her life had been permitted to her solely for the sake
of that one half-hour’s conversation with Bryan Kilmartin at the
ball.
Why such a strange conviction should cling to her she did not
know, only she felt inexplicably that she should yet have some
further means of serving him, that she was to have something
more to do with him, or for him, before she died. She was too
young to know the folly of relying on in presentiments: though
presentiments do sometimes come true.

She was startled out of her long retrospect by the sound of
an approaching foot on the stair, followed by a summons on her
door. Rising quickly to open, she almost expected to see Kilmar-
tin again on the threshold, come to tell her what further she could
do for him. But it was not Kilmartin who stood before her
expectant eyes, only meek old Father Daly from Distresna.

Marcella had never beheld him before, but seeing that he was
a priest, she, as a matter of course, invited him to enter and sit
down.

He laid his hat on the corner of the old loom, looked at her
kindly and critically for a moment, and then extending his blunt,
honest, feeling old hand (for hands express as much as voices), said :

“Shake hands with me, my dear. There is no one to introduce
us; but as you and I are bound to have much to do with each other
through life, we will begin to be friends at once, if you have no
objection.”

Marcella thought for an instant that the strange priest’s mind
was a little astray, or that he had mistaken her for someone else.
But he soon corrected that impression.

‘Your name is Marcella Grace,” he said, “and you have lately
suffered a great loss. Nay, my dear, God wipes the tears from all
eyes; and sure I am you have already wept more than is good for
you. Now, how am I to talk to you if you go on crying this way P”

Marcella, whose flesh was weak from scant food and sleep, but
whose spirit was willing, righted herself at once and asked what
her visitor wanted of her.

“Sit down, my dear child, and listen to me, for I have a good
deal to say. Some time ago you had intercourse with a lady, a
cousin of your mother’s—Mrs. O'Kelly, my friend, my poor friend
—God be merciful to her!”

“ Sir, you do not mean ——”

Hareella Grace. 169

“That she also is dead? But Ido, mydear. God has strange
ways of dealing with us, and sometimes troubles come oddly in
bunches. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ says the old proverb; but
after God’s rain there is always some harvest for the soul. Now,
my dear, I will allow you to cry for five minutes, but you must not
be longer, forI havea great deal to say and todo. My poor old
friend had a true affection for you. She told me to tell you she
was sorry she had been hasty with you. She died with sorrow in
her heart for your trouble, but she did what she could to make
amends, so she did.”

“ And I have been thinking her changeable and unkind,” said
Marcella, trying to control her grief. ‘‘ But what—how—— P”

“I will tell you all about it. Sometime ago we had a bit of a
misunderstanding, my poor friend and I, about rents down in the
country, and about making her will, and because I was displeased
about one I would give her no advice about the other, God forgive
me. And I went away in a huff ”

Here Father Daly paused and remembered the old lady’s angry
ery, “ Don't come back here until I send for you!” but he said
nothing of that.

“About a fortnight ago,” he went on, “TI got a telegram in
the country asking me to come in a hurry to comfort my poor old
friend. She had had a stroke of paralysis, and she had only a few
conscious hours before she died. Fortunately, and thanks be to
God, she was able to make use of her time.”

Marcella listened in silence. All this conveyed to her but one
thought. Her good friend had died without receiving the grateful
thanks which were her due, and meanwhile the recipient of her
bounty had thought of her with a reproachful heart. How can
euch piteous misunderstandings ever be put straight when death
and eternity have interposed between soul and soul ?

“She told me about you, my dear, and how strangely you had
come across her as if Providence had sent you. She owned she
was wrong in being displeased at you for hurrying away to your
father, and she would have followed you next day only ’twas then
the hand of God was laid on her. Poor soul ! she blamed herself
right and left as we all will have to do then, my dear, and may as
well begin now. And the end of it was she left you her love;
and along with it she has bequeathed you all she was possessed of
in the world.”

“I prize the message dearly,” said Marcella; “it puts me
right again. I thought I had lost a friend, and now Ihave gained

170 Marcella Grace.

one again, though so far away as heaven. Thank you with all my
heart, Father, for coming to bring me that word.”

Father Daly looked at her inquiringly.

“I don’t think I have made you understand me,” he said.
“You are now Mrs. O’Kelly’s heiress, my child, with houses and
lands, and an income of two or three thousand a year.”

Marcella coloured to the roots of her hair, and threw back her
head and looked at Father Daly with a puzzled expression.

“ Have I heard you rightly?” she said, in a low voice. “Do
you not make some strange mistake? Oh, sir, don’t you see that
it is so very, very unlikely ?”

“Nothing is so likely to happen as the unexpected,” quoted
Father Daly, buttoning his coat, “and this is not so unlikely after
all. You are her nearest of kin, in the first place, and she was
very fond of you in the second. At all events, I can assure you
that there is no kind of mistake. And now about practical busi-
ness. You can laugh, and cry, and wonder about it all when you
have time, but in the meantime you must have somebody to listen
to you. It will not suit you to continue longer in this house, my
dear, than is absolutely necessary. I have thought about all that,
and I have made some arrangements. As the lady of Distresna
you must have proper surroundings at once, and there is no use in
taking the world into our confidence unnecessarily as to where you
have hitherto had your home. In all humility we must always
remember it ourselves ; but it was Mrs. O’Kelly’s wish that nothing
should be said to take from under your feet the little platform of
worldly respectability on which she had been at pains to set you
up. Not that you must ever deny the truth, but the world has no
claim on our voluntary confidence.

“This being so,” continued Father Daly, brushing his hat with
his coat-sleeve, and looking at the crown of it intently, so that he
might not intrude upon Marcella’s natural emotions at such a mo-
ment, “I have taken some steps for your comfort. Here is money
which you will want to wind up youraffairs—your own money,mind;
nobody else’s ;—and if you are ready to leave this to-morrow, I
will take you to a place where, I will answer for it, you will soon
not be sorry to have gone. Some clothes, and all that, can be sent
after you.”

“Where P”” asked Marcella.

“Well, I am going to take you to a friend of mine in the
country, for the present. I thought you would not care to go to
Merrion-square just now, and Crane's Castle would, give you but a

Harcella Grace. 171

cold welcome unless it got longer notice. With Mrs. Kilmartin
you will be happy and safe until such other arrangements as you
please can be made for you.”

“Mrs. Kilmartin,” murmured Marcella, again with the feeling
that she could not have rightly heard or understood.

“She is a dear friend of mine, and was a friend of Mrs.
O’Kelly till—well, the world parted them. She lives in a very
retired spot and is an invalid, and a great deal alone, as her only
son is necessarily much away from her. I wrote to her in haste,
telling her the state of the case, and this morning I received her
reply. She will expect us to arrive to-morrow evening.”

Having given her a few more detailed instructions, Father
Daly went away and left Mrs. O’Kelly’s heiress to realise this
newest and most extraordinary of all the changes in her life.

Her friend as well as her father gone from this world, and in
their place fortune, ladyhood, position in life allotted to her.

Her first impulse when alone, was to fall upon her knees and
wrestle in prayer with the great wonder, and the strange alterna-
tions of pain and joy that now, after her first bewilderment had
passed away, seized and shook her. With her hands clasped above
her head she remained long in the attitude of supplication with-
out power to put her thoughts into ordered words, hardly knowing
what she asked to receive, or to be saved from, only keenly con-
scious that God was aware of it all, and would overshadow her
with the wings of his care. Then rising to her feet, and standing
in the middle of the old familiar room, she looked round on the
poverty-stricken hearth, the old loom, the rotting timbers, and
said to herself that all this evidence of her old life was passing
away from her, and after to-morrow would be seen no more. Only
this morning she had feared that she should never be able to escape
from its sordid, haunted forlornness to cleaner and less dreary,
even if almost as poor, surroundings, and now it seemed to her she
could not leave it without a pang. The old crazy sticks and stained
walls were all that remained to connect her with whatever love she
had known in her life, and in leaving them for ever she seemed to
cut herself adrift from those she had for ever lost.

Her experiences till now had inclined her to “ trust no future
hhowe’er pleasant,” and yet as her thoughts, after an interval of
sorrowful looking back, sprang on to to-morrow, the eagerness of
youth leaped up in her, and she smiled radiantly through her
tears. It was true, true as that she held what seemed to her a
small dowry of golden sovereigns in her hand, that she was henee-

174 Marcella Grace.

forth to have money, freedom, nice living, gentle and genial com-
panionship, power to relieve those who suffered still as she herself
was now to suffer no more. She was to go forth into a beautiful
world, with flowers on her breast and a golden wand in her hand—
and then her wide vision of the splendours and delights of a pos-
sible happiness gradually narrowed down to one dazzling point, as
she remembered that to-morrow she was—strange to tell, and hard
to realise—to be a guest in Bryan Kilmartin’s mother’s home.

With the impulse of youth to believe unflinchingly in what it
has already accepted by instinct as noble, she had never paid the
slightest heed to Mrs, O’Kelly’s denunciations of this man, pre-
ferring to think that he was right, and his former friend in the
wrong, having from the first adopted his cause, whatever it might
be, as the just one. Mrs. O’Kelly had described his mother as
crushed and undermined in health by the wrong-headedness of
her son. This Marcella had never believed, but now she should
see. Happily she should presently see.

Then she began to make her arrangements for the final break
with her past. With characteristic fidelity to what she had under-
taken, she finished the piece of sewing on which she had been
engaged when interrupted by Father Daly with his wonderful news,
and took it to the shop which had employed her. Strange it was to
her now, the old familiar counting out of pence into her hand—her
hand which was to have henceforth the spending ‘of sovereigns.
Coming out of the shop she gave the price of her tear-stained labour
to the first poor-looking creature she met, and passed on hugging
the blessing which she had bought with the alms. Next she made
some purchases, a few necessary articles for herself, and various
little presents for humble friends who had been kind to her in her
trouble. She paid her small debts, and said her last good-byes,
telling all those poor creatures whom she visited, that friends
having sent for her, she was leaving Dublin, but giving no clue to
her future whereabouts. Nobody was surprised. Marcella had
grand relations and, now that her father was gone, of course they
would look after her. The neighbours promised to pray for her,
wished her God speed, and she was gone.

She met Father Daly at the railway station, and at the ringing
of the bell for the train, and the shriek from the engine, the cur-
tain finally fell on the early struggles of Marcella Grace, to rise
again shortly on the joys and tribulations of the heiress of
Distresna.

Marcella Grace. 173

CHAPTER IX.
THE SHADOW OF A CRIME.

Bryan Kilmartin sat in his chambers in Dublin turning over an
anonymous letter in his hands, and pondering its contents. It
told him that the police were watching him, that he was suspected
of complicity in a recent crime, that a strong case was being made
out against him, and that he had better fly the country while yet
he had time.

“A precious document!” he exclaimed. “I shall not take
the slightest notice of it,” and then tearing it into shreds he walked
to the window and stood looking out, without seeing the things at
which he gazed.

His thoughts were busy with the events of that night when he
had fled through the streets of the Liberties of Dublin like a
criminal from justice. The horror of the scene he had fled from
lay in dismal colours before the eye of his mind. A fellow-crea-
ture whose steps had been dogged from street to street, done
to death without a moment’s warning, a man whose hand he
had often touched, the sound of whose voice he knew, lying on the
pavement in his blood while his murderers escaped. He heard the
ery of the police and their footsteps following, as, overwhelmed
with dismay at his position, he, Bryan Kilmartin, did what he had
never done before in his life, ran from purguit, and sought for a
hiding-place and sanctuary. His brow burned as he remembered
all that had occurred, and then having mastered a sort of silent
passion of shame and regret, he turned abruptly from the window,
took up his hat, and left the house, as if he would escape from his
painful thoughts by movement through the open air.

Passing across Merrion-square he looked up at a house from
which he had only a few days ago followed the funeral of an old
friend, one whom he had always looked on as a friend in spite of
the sharp reproaches with which she had of late kept him in mind
that she held him in disgrace on account of his politics. And
what were these politics which so dishonoured him, he asked
himself ? He believed that Ireland might be made and ought to
be made, by her own exertions, a peaceful and contented country,
that education should be encouraged in, and famine should be
banished from the land. That was about the whole in a nut-shell.
Probably his friend,; an emigrant now herself to that new world

174 Marcella Grace.

where no renta are paid and unbought leases are held in perpetuity,
wes wiser this moment than she had been a month ago, and would
willingly exonerate him from much with which she had not
serupled to charge him. How quickly she had taken her depar-
ture, poor old lady, and what had become of that strangely in-
teresting girl, the young relative who had appeared under her
chaperonage just before her death? As this girl’s face and voice
came back to him, he remembered that it was not only her own
peculiar attractions which had so fascinated him, but also her
curious resemblance to that other girl who was eo associated with
his adventure on one fatal night, the events of which had just now
been so present to his mind, and to which his thoughts still so
easily went back

The sordid aspect of the rooms, the poor garb of his protectress
herself came before him again, and he reproached himself for not
having tried to do something to better the condition of those under
whose roof he had been sheltered from a real misfortune. True
there might be some danger to him in returning to the spot, in at
all connecting himself with the people, whoever they might be,
who lived in that house. If he were in reality watched by the
police, as he had been informed, it might tell against him were he
observed to hold any intercourse with those who had harboured
him, who might be suspected of having screened him from justice
on that occasion. Yet in a matter of this kind it were cowardice
to be over prudent. He had already discovered that the owner of
the house was a weaver of poplin, poor and old; might he not
benefit him a little if only by buying his manufacture P

The man he had never seen; the girl he was assured would
keep his secret. He felt a sudden and strong desire to do some-
thing at once towards discharging his debt. In these troubled
times a man like him could not be sure of the circumstances in
which he might find himself to-morrow. Better to do at once
whatever seemed urgent to be done. Under the influence of this
impulse he directed his steps towards the Liberties, and took his
way through some of the most historic parts of Dublin. Here,
along these quays where the westering sun turns even the mud of
the Liffey into liquid gold, makes the dome of the Four Courts
redden in the clouds, and fires the spars of such shipping as clusters
between the shadowed spans of the bridges, ran the “‘ rebels” of
’98 with caps of pitch ablaze on their heads to plunge madly into
the waters for an ending of their torment. About this spot were
enacted the last pathetic scenes in the ahort life of the enthusiastic

Harcella Grace. 175

boy Robert Emmet, the Chatterton of Irish politics. Along this
route he strode, sword in hand, leading on the ragged regiment
which was all that appeared in the flesh of the imaginary armies
with which he had expected to win Ireland for the Irish, and there
his gibbet stood, the scaffold from which his heroic young soul
escaped to where thero are neither famines, nor oppression, nor
possible mistakes or miecalculations for the ardent and freedom-
loving spirit to fall into. In yonder house Lord Edward Fits

gerald was trapped, wounded, and caught, to be dragged to
Kilmainham prison to die of his wounds. On this streetway Lord
Kilwarden met the untimely fate that broke Emmet’s heart. And
so on through many a thoroughfare till the causeways grew nar-
rower und dirtier, till “ Patrick's” lowered above the pedestrian’s
head, and the big bell boomed the hour over squalid houses and
unwholesome alleys. Time was when the passer-by might have
turned into the great cathedral to say a prayer for the living and
the dead, but living and dead may now lack a neighbour's suffrage
long ere Patrick’s threshold can be crossed thus unceremoniously by
a knee that would bend, and a soul that would pray. And this
way lies Weaver’s-square.

Kilmartin glanced keenly around him as he entered it. Yes,
that was the house, that large one at the end of the street. It
looked dark, desolate, deserted. Could it be possible that anyone
lived within those wallsP He spoke to a boy who was passing,
and asked for information of the inhabitants of that particular
house.

“There’s nobody in it now, sir. The ould man is dead, sir ;
and his daughter's gone away. The people do say, sir, that she’s
gone away clane out of Dublin to her friends.”

“Dead; gone! Gone to her friends. I hope she has friends.
I trust she has real friends,” was Kilmartin’s thought ; and then
he reproached himself for not having sooner made an effort to
know something about her. Prudence told him however, that
things were better as they were. The less the girl knew of the
man she had rescued the safer perhaps for him. Let all good
angels guard her in that spot of earth, wherever it might be,
whither the exigencies of fate had driven her, with that shadow of
habitual endurance on her earnest brow, and light of ready pity
in her tender and sympathetic eyes. As he turned away from the
street, the thoughts sprung from his interest in the girl, as an
individual, gave place again to others which touched on the question
of his own personal safety.

176 Marcella Grace,

“Should anyone have watched me into the house,” he thought,
“and with such testimony be ready to help to establish a possible
case against me, what would be the effect in the matter of the
girl’s sudden disappearance? Is there not a likelihood that I
should be suspected of removing her P ”

And as he walked on, his mind ran on the curious tricks of fate,
to speak in worldly phrase, the strange dives and twists that cir
cumstances will make at times as if precisely for the purpose of
forcing white to look black, and black to look white. Unfortu-
nately we are not always in the mood to see in these the arrange-
ments of Providence, able to round the crooked zigzags of our way
into fair curves and beautify barren wastes of travel to our sore
feet. And it seemed to him now, that if out of the very threads he
had himself spun, of loyal purpose, a net was being woven around
him to his destruction, then the consequences of the freaks of
accidental circumstance would certainly be hard upon him.

CHAPTER X.
HOMEWARD.

Kirmarrin had just returned from London, where he had gone to
try to stir up a little interest among members of Parliament on the
subject of the Purchase Clauses of the Land Act, which were in
such a state that all sale was blocked while some of his tenants
were eager to buy what he would be as well pleased to sell. Find-
ing even greater difficulty than he anticipated, he had returned
sooner than he intended, and so had probably crossed in the
channel his letters from home which as yet had not followed him
here. The result of this morning's reflections, suggested by the
receipt of that anonymous letter which, contemptible as he held it,
yet had left its sting behind it as such things do, was that he made
up his mind to run down into the country at once, see his mother,
and arrange his affairs with a view toa possible surprise. In these
days there was no knowing when a man might be lifted out of the
midst of his affairs, at any amount of inconvenience to himself and
others dependent on him, to be practically annihilated at a moment's
notice, and for an indefinite length of time. He was ready to
acknowledge that this might be all very well, if the individual so
lifted were a mischievous individual, but he did not think that he,

Marcella Grace. 177

Kilmartin, would, in the event of his being so pounced upon and
done away with, prove to be the right man in tho right place.

The next morning he took the train as far as the train would
carry him westward in the direction in which he wanted to go,
and about the middle of the summer day, mounted on horseback,
to travel the fifty miles which still separated him from his little
Connaught, kingdom.

Whoever knows Ireland well knows the beauty of the land
through which he passed, while the sun traversed the wide horizon
from east to west over his head, taking the light from the lakes
and giving it to the hills, stealing the colours from the mountain-
tops to spread them across the moor, and ever reversing the picture
again as the breeze stirred and the clouds shifted. The beauty of
this island of ours is the beauty of light and colour in incessant
change. The valley has walls dark and blue as sapphire, and is
itself reservoir of iridescent glory, but while we look, the walls
have become pure gold, and the hollow land between has mysteri-
ously yawned, deepened, and been flooded with gloom. The elfish
mists that sit on the purple peaks and wind themselves about the
grey crags, descend before we have time to determine their shapes
tolie along the edge of the dark pool, and creep among the flicker-
ing reeds, and transform the wide brown lines of the monotonous
bog into the paths of a shimmering supernatural dominion. We
have one moment a royal richness of ambers, purples, crimsons, and
golds of every variety of lustre, all spread at our feet like Alad-
din’s treasures, and the next we are swathed in a winding-sheet of
gruesome grey, and move through a world, poor, cold, windswept,
and rainbeaten. Even in the unbroken weather of a summer day,
our erial changes are so swift and ceaseless that the land we move
through seems alive and with motion ; what wasquitenearissuddenly
far away, and what was distant comes as rapidly smiling towards
us, So much of our landscape is water, lakes, rivers, bays, linked
together by wet vernal vegetation, and so constantly does every
cup of a moss-girdled lakelet, rag of a pool with its torn fringes,
and strip of a widening and narrowing stream, snatch at the
clouds above it and hold a piece of the blue sky for ever in its
breast, that half our earth is literally heaven, and we often seem
to walk through a sort of mid-air region, with moonrise and sun-
set, not only over our heads but under our feet.

‘No wonder, if in a country so over-ridden by freakish mists
and deceiving waters, so eternally the highway for processional
eplendours of shifting colours, so hopelessly the grim sport of

178 Harcella Grace.

funereal clouds and shadows, we encounter at every turn wraiths
and fairies, ghosts and elves, that peer at us out of the lakes and
the caves, and come down to us from the hollow places of the
mountains.

Natural enough if we see them sitting on the edge of the pool
when the blue shadows of dusk are beginning to turn brown, or
hear their bells ringing for evening as the sun goes down in fire
behind the thorn trees, or meet them veiled and pensive, gliding
across the lapwing’s track on the dun moor, or desory the spearsof
their lances glinting under the moon at the back of the river-side
thicket.

Small blame to us, if we suspect them of creeping through the
keyholes to sit on our hearths while we are asleep, or waken early
to hear the horns of the elfin hunt blowing, echoing thinly over
the dawn-empurpled crests of the hills!

Bryan Kilmartin loved every huge boulder that hung out of
the mountain over the path he travelled, every diamond-like splash
of water that blinked at him, as he passed by bog and over moor,
every forlorn tree that seemed to mourn a defunct forest at some
desolate angle of the high-road. The whole company of elves and
fairies were as well known and as dear to him as the flag-lilies in
the river, the fluttering pennons of the reeds, and the grotesque
shapes of the bog-wood just unearthed out uf the reeking peat-
moss.

Sometimes as he had poked about in the gloaming at home,
while the plover wailed, and the bat flapped across his eyes, and it
seemed quite rational to expect to see some rarified creature, with a
certain semblance to humanity, step out of the elefts in the rock,
or from under the screen of the waving bracken, he had told
himself that if Irish waste lands were all drained, and Irish rents
were low, the delightful eldritch population of these lovely but
famine-breeding wildernesses might arise and emigrate en masse
to some now weirder region, some spot of earth where mists still
exhaled from wet mosses growing nothing but brilliant weeds, and
their fumes still got into the vision-seeing brains of hungry and
languishing humanity.

At the first sprinkling of corn, wine, and oil, no doubt the
fairies would mount their phookas and disappear, and though their
landlord (for he accounted himself such to those of the tribe who
lived in his brackens, or under, or over his barren gray rocks),
would grieve for the elfin exodus, yet willingly would he unbar
the gates of the morn that let those go forth who require no food

Marcella Grace. 179

but the dewdrops, to make way for the footstep of the sower and
the reaper, for the hand that would plant the potato where the
nightshade had spread, and make two blades of grass to spring
where only one had hitherto grown. But at present the parting
between landlord and elfin tenant did not seem imminent, for as
yet the landscape still reeked with water, and the children of
humanity were not fed.

Towards the end of his journey, he passed through all the
wonders of sunset, while threading one picturesque valley after
another, crossing gorges in the mountains, and skirting along
a glen here, and open moorland there. Like a guiltless soul
through the ordeal of fire he passed unscathed, amid flames
that threatened to consume the green vales and melt the moun-
tains to their base. First it was a golden glory which fell from
the heavens, blinding bright, and then amber became rose, and
rose became crimson-red, till the fires behind the darkling moun-
tains burned themselves out, and paler tints came out to cool the
burning earth and air.

Just as the cooler amethystine glow began to sweeten the
atmosphere, he rounded a shoulder of steep mountain, and a scene
of wild grandeur and beauty greeted his home-coming eyes,
There, on a little island, set low in a dark lake, rose the gables and
chimneys of his mother’s house. He could see the smoke from the '
hearth where presently he should sit, the boat lying still on the
beach in which he was about to cross to the island dwelling. From
the further shore a huge mountain rose, rugged in outline, and so-
darkly purple in hue as to seem almost black, and against this
looming background the whitened buildings on the little island
twinkled. On the side of the lake by which he was approaching
it, a range of hills, less stern than the more distant ones, slanted
to catch the remnant of sunset light, and as the two lines
folded together in the distance beyand, the island appeared to be
set in a triangular cu/ de sac of water and mountains. On oneside,
towards which the chief windows of the island house were placed,
the protecting mountains swept apart, revealing amagnificent sketch
of distant country, moorland dyed every shade of tawny brown and
gold, alternating with darker blots of bog and vivid streaks of green,
and all shimmering in waves of light away to the uncertain border-
land of cloud and mystery in which soared, with their beaked
points, delicate crests, and long curved shoulders the mountains
which are known as the Pins or Bens of Connemara.

Tle threw his horse's bridle over a post of the little gate that

Vor. xur. No, 142. 15

180 Harcella Grace.

guarded the path leading down to the water, and, springing into
the boat, laid hold of the oars. A bugle lay in the stern, and
picking it up he blew a blast that went ringing across the lake and
came back in a shower of echoes rippling like musical laughter
round the margins of the lake.

A few minutes’ pulling with the oars brought him near the
shore of the island, where he saw a figure standing watching his
approach, whose outlines puzzled and surprised him. This was
not the tiny form of his invalid mother, who rarely crept from her
couch and could not have come so far from it withont help, even
to answer her son’s bugle-call by meeting him at the landing-
place, neither had it the extensive and elderly proportions of the
faithful housekeeper who had followed her mistress in her reverses
of fortune to this lonely retreat, nor was it as slight and childlike
as the little assistant handmaid who made the third female inhabi-
tant of the island. And yet the figure was familiar to Bryan.
With extreme astonishment he gazed at it from a distance of about
twenty yards, and it seemed to him that he was looking on the girl
who had been so much in his thoughts the day before, whom he had
been seeking in Weaver’s-square, and who had disappeared with
his secret in keeping, had left Dublin, and “ gone to her friends.”
There were the very outlines of her figure, with its dark draperies,
and that was the attitude in which he remembered her, alert and
eager, the head thrown a little backward, the arms hanging by her
sides with unconscious grace. As he stared at her she turned
slightly, as if she would go away, and doing so, looked exactly as
when she had gone before him leading him to the closet. In-
voluntarily he signed to her to remain, and asking himself by what
extraordinary chance he found her here, and what fortune to himself
her presence portended, he with a few strokes of the oars pushed
home the boat between the rocks under her feet.

Marcella obeyed his signal and held her ground, till springing
up the rocks he stood by her side.

Then she smiled and held out her hand, and Bryan saw with
a confused sense of having been oddly tricked by his imagination,
that it was not his benefactress of the Liberties after all, but poor
Mrs. O’Kelly’s interesting niece, who had so strangely made herself
at home upon his island.

“You are surprised to see me here, Mr. Kilmartin—that is if
you remember me at all. We have met once before, at the
Patrick’s Ball.”

“TI remember,” said Kilmartin, thinking it would be strange if

Harcella Grace. 181

he did not, all things considered. His mind was still occupied with
the resemblance between the girl beside him and the girl who had
befriended him, and with the curious chance which a second time had-
brought the one before his eyes while the other was in his thoughts.

“I have lost my friend,” continued Marcella, in a low voice,
anxious to account at once for her presence; “and Father Daly
carried me off in a hurry, here, to Mrs, Kilmartin, who was kind
enough to take me in till Crane's Castle be ready to receive me.
Your mother does not expect you this evening, sir, and it was by
accident that I met you on the rock, having heard your music——”

Bryan perceived at once how natural was the situation after all,
and was surprised at nothing but the little word “sir” which had
slipped out upon Marcella, in momentary forgetfulness of the drill-
ing which poor Mrs. O'Kelly had given her. He looked at her
with increased interest, as for a moment she became more closely
identified in his eyes with the Liberties’ girl. However he laid
the little peculiarity of speech to the account of her foreign rear-
ing. Had not her aunt told him she had been educated abroad ?
He quite forgot now that Miss O'Kelly herself had contradicted
that statement.

Marcella, keenly aware of her slip, turned aside her head to
hide the blush which a sudden fear that she was betraying herself
called to her face. She had a double reason for desiring to hide
for ever the fact that it was she who had sheltered this gentleman
from the pursuit of the police. To her own desire to spare him a
possible humiliation, and perhaps a sense of uneasiness at her
possession of his secret, was now added the wish of her dead friend
that the extreme lowliness of her antecedents might remain un-
known to all save Father Daly. The priest had simply said to
Mrs. Kilmartin that the girl had lately lost her father, who had
been in anything but prosperous circumstances. Through a feeling
of delicacy Mrs. Kilmartin had, in condoling with her guest on her
bereavement, forborne to speak in any way which would seem to
call for more particular explanations; and Marcella hoped the
fact that she, now their friend and guest, and their future neigh-
bour, had by accident come to know an unpleasant secret of Kilmar-
tin’s life, might for ever remain in the obscurity in which
circumstance had enabled her eo far to bury it.

“Do I understand you to mean that Crane’s Castle is for the
future to be your home?” asked Bryan, having first expressed his
pleasure at finding that his mother had been enjoying) Miss
O’Kelly’s companionship in her lonely retreat.

182 Harcella Grace.

“Yes. Does it not seem strange? It seems that I have
simply stepped into Mrs. O’Kelly’s place.”

“She has made you her heiress?”

“ And I already feel the burden of the responsibility. Father
Daly has assured me that you will help me with my people.”

Kilmartin looked grave.

“I am not sure that it was fair to you, under the circumstances,
to bring yoa to us,” he said presently. “Of course Father Daly
acted for the best from his point of view. But there are many
sides to the question. My mother and I have struck out a peculiar
line of conduct for ourselves in these troubled times, and have
thereby incurred the censure of our own class. Whether we
have done much good by our efforts to get on what we have
considered the right track remains to be proved by time. Mean-
while we live, as you see us, remote from the world and in a very
simple way. And I question much if one so—so fitted to mingle
in society as you are ought to have your lot thrown in with ours
while yet you are in perfect ignorance of the possible consequences
to yourself of such an accident.”

“You mean that Miss Julia O'Flaherty will not care to make
an intimate friend of me. She has been here, and, down on the
rocks yonder, gave me a very solemn warning. I shall not grieve
much about Miss Julia O'Flaherty.”

“ There are others of a much better order whose acquaintance-
ship you might not like to forfeit, and who would naturally feel
interested in the heiress of Distresna.”

“Lady Villiers Blake, and Mrs. De Lacy Ffrench, for instance.
Your mother has described to me all the advantages which would
result to me from their sympathy and patronage. They have not
taken me into their homes, however, when I was friendless and
homeless, and with the friends who have done so I will choose to
remain.”

“They have not had the opportunity. They are motherly
women with daughters of their own, and their countenance would
be desirable for you out in the world, even if you think you can
get on without it here. My mother is incapacitated both physically
and by circumstances from ever doing you such service, and you
will be singularly lonely in that respect if you persist in identify-
ing yourself with us.”

“T have not led such a life as ought to incline me to desire the
fashionable world to which these ladies would introduce me. I
simply know nothing about them, and Providence has sent me to

Mareella Grace. 188

you. I shall not step out of the path in which Father Daly has,
whether fortunately or unfortunately, set my feet. I believe you
to be good, I know that you are kind, and I choose to belong to
you if you will let me.”

Shadows had fallen as they were speaking, all the sunset flames
were extinct, and in the solemn purple twilight a few quivering
stars had sprung into keen life above the crown of the great moun-
tain overhanging the lake. As Marcella, her face and figure grown
less distinct in the dusk, spoke the last words, a look of resolution
straightened her curved lips and an expression crossed her smooth
brows which again brought his protectress of the Liberties forcibly
before Kilmartin, and her words, “if I had not believed you good
I would not have acted as I have done,” seemed repeated in his
ear. It was the gathering shadows, he supposed, that gave her for
the moment that mournful look which had struck him eo forcibly
in the humbler girl, and which was happily not characteristic of
the heiress of Distreana. He had not yet, he told himself, got
quite accustomed to the fact of the existence of this strange
resemblance, or he should not have started so visibly as now he
did, causing Marcella to glance at him inquiringly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Only you are so very like—another
person whom I have known. I think I told you so the first and
last time I met you.” .

“ Yes,” said Marcella, controlling her alarm. “' Likenesses are
curious things.” She thought of how she must try to be as unlike
her old self in manner and speech as possible, and involuntarily
withdrew her hand from her breast, where under her dress lay the
ring that Kilmartin had given her,

And just then the little handmaid from the house came running
to tell Mr. Bryan that the mistress had recognised his bugle-call,
and was waiting impatiently for his arrival in her room.

CHAPTER XI.
INISHEEN.

Tue interior of the home at Inisheen (the little Isle), consisted of
a few rooms and passages all on the same floor. The outer walls
were of a great thickness, the chimneys stout and low, the windows
small and square, the porch strong as a little tower, having two
doors, one on each side, to be opened or shut in turn as the wind

184 Marcella Grace.

shifted. Set as it was in the middle of the wind-haunted lake, it
had the look of a little fortress, and such it was to the inhabitants
when they stood siege in it against the wintry clements. The three
or four acres of green turf which surrounded the dwelling and
sloped towards the rocks were studded with clumps of low grow-
ing trees and bushes, and a thick mat of ivy clung to every wall
of the house from base to eaves. All varieties of sea-birds, gulls,
puffins, curlews, and wild geese, made their nests in the rocks, or
came in long flights from the sea, which, though invisible from
Inisheen, was not far away, and their shrill cries and pipings as
they swept the lake like trails of mist gave-notice when there was
a storm at hand.

There were only two living-rooms at Inisheen, and the draw-
ingroom walls were two-thirds lined with books, the shelves
for which had been set up by Bryan himself, when stress of circum-
stance drove him, with his mother, to put into the little island as a
harbour. A few eastern rugs on the floor, some material of the
same kind draping the short, deep-seated windows, with a pretty
supply of foreign ornaments and curiosities, gave elegance and
colour to the little interior, where fire as well as lamps burned on
that summer night as a protection from chills and damps which,
dropping down from the mountains and exhaling from the lake,
might be seen any time from dark till dawn floating like wraiths
upon the bosom of the waters. A harp stood in one corner of the
room, and among the few pictures which the bookshelves had left
space for on the walls were an engraving of Robert Emmett, speak-
ing in his own defence upon his trial, and another of the old Irish
House of Commons, containing a multitude of-small figures, many
of which were portraits.

Marcella was sitting at a table, turning over some precious
etchings; Mrs. Kilmartin was reclining on her couch, her eyes
eagerly following the movements of her son, who walked about
the room while the conversation turned on the future treatment of
the discontented tenantry of Distresna.

Mrs. Kilmartin was a small, slight woman, looking more like a
withered child than a woman who had matured and grown old.
She was all white from head to foot except for her blue eyes and
‘pink lips. Her hair was snow-white and dressed prettily on the
top of her head, her face was delicately pale, and her gown and
shawl were both of some soft white woollen material.

“ We are not responsible for bringing her here, Bryan. Mrs.
O'Kelly coufided her to Father Daly, and Father Daly carried her

Harcella Grace. 185

off here at once to me. We have laid no plot to influence her
movements. She is twenty-one years of age and capable of
managing her own affairs. And indeed she has shown aptitude
for the business and some originality in striking out a course for
herself. My dear, will you tell Bryan what you have already
been about ?”

Marcella put aside the etchings, and leaning her elbows on the
table, and clasping her hands under her chin, looked towards
Bryan with a frank smile. She felt instinctively that he was less
likely to identify her with the Liberties girl, so long as she smiled,
for she had observed that it was generally when she looked grave
or sad that he turned those puzzled inquiring glances on her
which conveyed to her keen apprehension that the scene of his
introduction to the secret closet was present to hismind. On that
eventful night of his concealment, Marcella had certainly not
emiled at him. A patient courage, an uncomplaining mournful-
ness had been expressed then by the eyes and lips which were
irradiated now with a steady gladness which was by no means
assumed. For, still lost as she was in delighted surprise at the
change of fortune that had transferred her to this peaceful, refined,
and romantic home, and placed her as a centre of interest between
her hero and his mother, smiles came to her more naturally than
they had ever done before in the course of her short life.

“I have been visiting my people with Father Daly,” she said,
“not, however, as their landlord, but only as a friend of his. I
begged him to let me make their acquaintance first and try to gain
their good will before announcing myself as the future receiver of
their rents.”

“A happy thought,” said Bryan, watching eagerly all the
changes of her animated face. “ And how have you found them ?”

“TT have only visited afew as yet. Father Daly is to come for
me to-morrow again. In some of the cabins the people were as
sullen and reserved as they looked hungry and poverty-stricken.
In other places I thought them too civil. They seemed to distrust
a stranger, even though she accompanied Father Daly. But in
several cases I think I made my way asa friend. Miss O'Flaherty
had told me that unless I gave them presents and made them
great promises they would hate me. I gave them nothing and
promised them nothing, yet, I think, I shall be welcome to some
of them when I go back again.”

“TI donot doubt it. The freemasonry of human sympathy is
hardly known to Miss Julia O'Flaherty. It is only too well

186 Marcella Grace.

understood by, our poor Irish cottiers. I am glad you have made
ao good a beginning, Miss O’Kelly. That you should understand
the people you have to deal with by personal experience rather
than take them for granted through the counsels and representa
tions of others is just what is most desirable for you. It is better
for you to follow neither in my steps nor in Miss O'Flaherty’s
steps, but to make original footprints of yourown. Not everyone
is capable of doing so. It requires both heart and brains, though
most people think all that is needed is a rent-extracting machine.
Indeed, so strained and warped from the true uses have the relations
between landlord and tenant become, that even at the best a land-
lord’s is hardly a desirable position: For my own part I have
gradually withdrawn from it till I find myself now as little of
a landlord as possible on the acres my forefathers owned, and for
this I may thank my forefathers themselves, who, as some irreve-
rent wag said the other day, sold my birthright for a mess of
poteen, and figuratively speaking, gave their souls for a fox hunt.
Not that I am an enemy of the hunt; on the contrary ; but there
are more ways than ore of breaking a man’s neck by means of
the sport. I will show you to-morrow, Miss O'Kelly, if you and
Father Daly will give me a seat on his car when you are going
your rounds, the house in which your humble servant was born,
once a jovial house, an open house, a reckless, rack-renting house -
as any in old Ireland. ‘The roof is now falling in and the chim-
neys extend their cold arms to heaven as if crying out against the
ruin that has descended upon it. Only that I had a mother—
well, you will know my mother by-and by—who preferred a
straight conscience and simple living to ancestral halls and all
that kind of thing, I should this moment be patching at that
family roof-tree, and sending the smoke of unholy feasts up those
gaping chimneys. As it is, we have slackened rein on the necks
of our tenantry, and in many instances given them the bit in their
own teeth. We have here in this island sanctuary, set up our few
remaining household gods; and as in our case it was not too late
to mend, we have enjoyed infinite peace since we ceased to hold up
our heads among the great ones of the earth. Our plan has worked
well, I think, thouzh I do not pretend that in trying to do what
is best for my people, I have succeeded in satisfying them all. In
every community there is more or less of a sinister element which
blows like a contrary wind against the prow of all well-meaning
efforts. However, I have been content to struggle on in the teeth
of such difficulty, remembering how the demon was first evoked in

Harcella Grace. 187

this country, and knowing how hard it is to lay a demon, once
he has been evoked. Remembering, too, how early in life I
myself was misled with too much ardour and cherished a delusion,
and had almost descended ”

“We will not speak of that,” said Mrs. Kilmartin, with a
swift motion of her hand.

“No, we will not speak of that,” said Bryan. “I already
owe Miss O'Kelly an apology for my egoism. My only excuse is
that I have been led into it through my anxiety for her in her
present position. She is placed as I was, somewhat, and is called
on to act. I hope she will neither have to run the risks I have
run, nor miss her opportunity of doing whatever good she may.
I feel that she ought to have the benefit of every one’s experience.”

“I have already had several varieties,” said Marcella. “ First,
poor Mrs. O’Kelly instructed me carefully from her point of view,
next Miss O'Flaherty gave me a great deal of information, as did
also Mr. O’Flaherty during the day I spent at Mount Ramshackle.
From Mrs. Kilmartin I have heard a great deal that has placed
my difficulties plainly before me; and now Mr. Kilmartin”

Bryan wondered why she smiled at him so incessantly while
she spoke, and in the fascination of her smile he now almost forgot
the subject of her epeech.. He did not know that it was to guard
his secret, or rather her own secret knowledge of his secret that
she smiled, dazzling his eyes with bright glances so that he
might not see behind such glamour the melancholy Marcella of
the Liberties.

“She must be happy here,” he thought. ‘She must be feeling
happy with us. Would to God she could always stay ! ” and then
almost: shocked at the vehemence of this wish which was a revela-
tion to himself, he answered quickly :

“T hope you will use all these experiences only as so many
lamps to guide your way. I have no doubt your own womanly
instinct will find you a path for yourself which nobody has trod
before you.”

But after they had separated for the night, and all the lights
were out in the house, he walked down on the rocks where there
was always a murmur of music at night, a faint sweet clashing of
sounds in the air, even when storms were still, a mingling of splash-
ing water, whispering reeds, and the cries echoed from shore to
shore of wild birds, among the rocks, or riding late on the circling
waves that girdle Inisheen. And as he went he thought:

« An impoverished man, one perhaps fatally marked by misfor-

188 Lovest Thou He.

tune, to think of taking possession of the future of a creature ao
full of life, and freshness, and promise? No, I must not dare to
dream of her.”

Marcella, meanwhile, followed him with her thought, and asked
herself what was that evil from which he had with difficulty been
saved, of which his mother would not suffer him to speak? And
holding fast the ring reund her neck, she fell into a troubled sleep.

“LOVEST THOU ME?”
BY MBS. F. PENTRILL,

"T OVEST thon Me?” the risen Jesus said,

J And Peter humbly bowed his guilty head;
‘With shame he thought of that sad Passion morn,
‘When his dear Lord had stood, contemned, forlorn,
And he, the chosen ‘mid the chosen band,

A servant's idle taunt could not withstand.

“Ó Lord,” he cried, “ thou kuowest that [ love!”
But etill did Jesus ask, his faith to prove,

Till Peter thrice the same words had repeated,
While every time the Lord a new trust meted, .
As it to show how fully he believed

It Peter much had sinned, still more he grieved.

But we alas! how often do we sin

As Peter sinned—Ab! when shall we begin
‘The long atonement of his latter life P

The love, the labours, all the endless strife,
Against the Powers of Evil: and at last

The shameful death, o'er which himself he cast
Anadded shame, refusing e'en to die

As his Lord died ; choosing his head should lie
Dowawards in humbleness; with parting breath
Thus sealing grief that ended but in death.

(189)

ON THE WYE.
BY HENRY BEDFORD.

FEW days intervening between our departure from Cornwall

and our joining some friends at Lowerstoft, the question arose
how shall we spend them. We are leaving the wild, grand, tempest-
torn cliffs behind us and have before us another and very different
coast where we are due, but not just yet. From the Cornish Land’s
End, with its wild uplands and precipitous cliffs, to the eastern
shores with the dykes and fens of Suffolk, is the longest straight
line that can be drawn in England, and that three hundred and
sixty-seven miles we have to travel, but surely not without a
break. The change, in these days of rapid travelling, will be too
abrupt, and will jar upon the quiet frame of mind which home-
travelling implies, and so we resolve upon an intermediate state,
a kind of via media, which nature fortunately suggests, and thus,
as is but proper—at least in vacation time—we resolve to follow
nature, and therefore at Bristol we leave the Flying Dutchman,
and turn aside for a few quiet days on the Wye.

So between the wild coast of the south and the tame shores of
the east, we select the beautiful river, which is neither wild nor
tame, as a connecting-link, which somehow weaves into one chain
the ancient traditions of the far distant past, und the modern ideas
of the insistent present ; for has it not its venerable castles and its
bran-new mansions, its ancient Welsh names applied to the freshest
and youngest railway stations; its grim solitudes invaded by
noisy engines, its very ocean rampart undermined by a railway
tunnel? We left the railway, we said, at Bristol; but in truth
it was only a change of line; for it is no easy thing now-a-days
to get away altogether from these necessary evils. Some seven-
and-thirty years ago, when we first visited the Wye, it was as
guiltless of railways as was then the Rhine, with which it is so
often compared ; now it is almost as much strait-waistcoated as that
more renowned river; indeed, on maps of small scale, the Wye is
well-nigh blotted out by the broad black lines which iron it down,
and tie its pleasant towns together by links that bind it to the
main lines and hold it, as it were, in hand for impatient tourists
who have no time to spare. Well, we must confess, we are more
frightened than hurt. The old pleasant roads are still there, wind-

190 On the Wye.

ing along by the side of the beautiful river; now strolling amid
the deep shadows of the grand trees that skirt the shore, or under
the cliffs,which, when not crowned to their summits with the richest,
verdure, are rearing their ruddy heads high above all, but ever
coming out of the pleasant shade, when a bend of the Wye, a
ruined castle, or a venerable abbey is to be seen to the greatest
advantage. Are we wrong in thus giving life to the roads, when
we cannot help regarding them as our guides and companions in
pleasant rambles? They are silent when we would be alone, but
they are lively and talkative enough when we would shake off con-
templation and live again amid the living nature through which
they so cunningly lead ua.

True, the railway is there, wherever you want it, and indeed
when you would at times wish it away; but you can avoid it if
you please, and wander where it can hardly follow, and so you are
the master and not it, which cannot always be said. So we philo-
tophically resolve to use it in time of need, and to turn our back
upon it when we can do better without it. From Bristol it carries
us to the New Passage station, which is at once a terminus and a
landing-place; so it pulls up abruptly with a yell and a snort on
the Bristol Channel and discharges us and the rest of its freight
into a small steamer, which quickly carries us across from Glou-
cestershire into Monmouthshire, which is safer than saying from
England into Wales, as we and many others are somewhat hazy as
to where one country ends and the other begins, which was not made
clearer when, very soon after making the passage across, we find
ourselves in Gloucestershire again. While we are writing, that
line of demarkation is becoming still more faint, the New Passage
station will cease to be a terminus, and the train will perhaps hardly
condescend to recognise its existence, as it dashes on, on its own
hook, as our American cousins say, not indeed into but under the
Bristol Channel, or River Severn (whichever you please to call it
here), and pushes its own independent way into South Wales with
passengers for the Wye, or out of it with iron and coal from the
busy mines which, while they disfigure the country make it so rich
and profitable to its inhabitants, who wisely prefer Cardiff, Merthyr,
and Swansea to Chepstow, Rhaglan, and Tintern.

The tunnel is about a mile and a half long, but its real under-
river passage is not more than a mile. When we were there a great
battle was raging between science and nature—the one pouring its
spring water copiously into the tunnel from a deeper one of its
own making underneath that which science was constructing, the

On the Wye. 191

other pumping out the intruder and stopping its mouth most un-
civilly but resolutely with clay and puddle. Which will triumph ?
We discussed the pros and cons with two experienced and learned
engineers ; but time has since settled the question, and not for the
first time science has won the victory, and Wales is tied by another
link to the land which was once her own. Thus are journeys
shortened. What took us more than two hours in the fardistant past
now occupies less than one, while in the near future (as the phrase
is), a few minutes will suffice; but in the process the pleasant
voyage from Bristol to Chepstow is gone; and that meant a sail down
the romantic Avon into the Severn, across its broad waters and up
the Wye to Chepstow. The breezy passage across the abounding
Severn will soon be no more, and a stifled run through a dark
tunnel will show the traveller nothing, but (what he seems to prize
more) will hasten him to his destination, which may be other than ”
what he intends, should the land-spring clear its mouth once more
beneath, or the strong tides of the Severn work their way from
above. In either case the old proverb will not hold good, in medio
tutissimus ibis. .
However much of Welsh blood we may have in our veins, we
promise to spare the impatient reader (the long-suffering, patient
reader has become extinct in the struggle for life and the survival
of the strongest, we suppose) the infliction of Welsh names. So
we content ourselves, once for all, with a specimen and point out
as objects easy to be seen if difficult to be named Tirymbarliwm,
Myndd-maen, Mynydd-alt-arfaid, and Mynyd.i-Uwyd, respectable
hills of ancient family and undisputed lineage. Fortunately for
people with ordinary powers of articulation, the more famous spots
of the Wye have names less trying to the jaws. While we are
digesting as best we may these Welsh names, and wondering what
conjunction of consonants would suffice for Mont Blanc and the
Matterhorn, if these modest hills require so many to do them
justice, we are looking out, and not successfully, for the Wye.
Here are the abundant waters of the Severn pouring themselves
with a surprising width and depth of volume into the Bristol Chan-
nel; but what is that to us just nowP The Wye is our river, the
river to which we are on pilgrimage, and so this grander shrine is
as nothing in comparison. We land and are soon railed along the
shore, and then inland to our own river, and pause on its banks as
Chepstow, which is indeed Wye-land in miniature ; for here is the
river with its picturesque bridge, its lofty viaduct, its romantic
town, and stately castle. But what of the river? In truth, the

192 On the Wye.

Wye, here at least, is not a pellucid stream, flowing us it does
between muddy banks. Turbid are the waters, as they must needs
be, where the tide rises occasionally some sixty feet, but water colour
in itself is not displeasing when it is a token of strength and
volume.

Of necessity, Chepstow is picturesque; for it must stand on a
hill, otherwise it would long ago have been washed away, and for
the same reason its bridges aro grand and sturdily beautiful, with
that beauty which comes of strength and life-long triumph. So
we climb up the steep streets, pass under an ancient gateway, and
come suddenly upon the grand old castle which has its history of
centuries written on its massive ruins. How grandly it stands on
the brink of a cliff that overhangs the river, while on the land
side it is guarded by a deep ditch. As we wander through its four
courts, which rise one above the other on the still rising ground, and
speculate upon the uses of the several parts which are sufficiently
distinct to assist our search, and yet so overgrown and dilapidated
as to leave room enough for imagination to have full play, we
hardly care to know the details of its history and content ourselves
with the rude outlines which tell so well their own tale.

To say that Chepstow Castle belongs to the Duke of Beaufort
is to say that it is kept in perfect preservation. No attempt is of
course made at restoration ; it is too completely a thing of the past
to be revivified, and to galvanize it into a sham life, or to convert
it into a modern residence, is about the last thing the princely
and right-minded owner would think of doing. The Duke of
Beaufort is a power in Wye-land, fortunately for the lover of
antiquities, and with a munificence guided by refined taste and
@ full appreciation of his duties as inheritor of this and other
ancient castles, knows what to do and has the means of doing it.

The church at Chepstow has a curious modern history which
it would doubtless tell in loud and angry accents could it give
tongue as its belledo. In good old times, when the De Clares built
it in Stephen’s reign, it was the chapel of a Priory of Benedictines.
It gloried, as well it might, in its Norman porch and tower, as it
afterwards did with Early-English nave and aisles. Through
troublesome times it held its own; even Cromwell spared it when
he dismantled the neighbouring castle; so it was left for a rector
-of our own day to get a Wyatt to adopt it to modern requirements
at the expense of the bishop of the diocese. I will not mention
names, not even to show which Wyatt of the}building family of
church restorers (falsely so-called) of that name perpetrated the

On the Wye. 193

outrage. But what the three wise heads together did was this.
They pulled down the two aisles of the nave, and added, at its east
end,two incongrous transepts and a choir, thereby destroying its
fair proportions, and leaving in place of the grand old priory
chapel the gaunt akeleton of the aisle-less nave, and mocked its
shrunken body with these unbecoming head and shoulders. This
is, as a guide-book says, “ the first piece of church architecture of
the afterwards eminent firm of Wyutt and Brandon.”

After our Sunday duties, spiritual and corporal, had been dis-
charged—the latter including an excellent dinner at the Beaufort
Arms, and the former an intellectual feast which the good priest
provided us in the shape of a sermon, than which we have seldom
heard a better—we spent the long summer afternuon and evening
in a pleasant ramble to the Wyndcliff, the most renowned of the
many points of beauty which Wye-land has to display. There is
a regulation walk through a park which extends most of the way
between Chepstow and the cliff, on whose varied charms most
visitors dilate; but being Sunday, the gates are closed, and so we
wayfarers have, like other tramps, to keep to the road, which here
indeed is anything but a penalty. Shut in by lofty hedges, which
are crowded by fine overhanging trees, the summer heat and glare
are tempered down almost into a dim religious light, which is
grateful alike to mind and body, while the windings of the well-
kept road and the absence of workday traffic make us almost doubt
if in truth we are outside the beautiful domain. If points of view
are less frequent, the effect of the grand prospect reserved for the
end of our ramble is made still more striking, and so on we wend
our pleasant way until the road branches off past a small hamlet,
a path diverges over the bright meadow and we enter upon a wood-
land climb which is evidently our way to the Wyndcliff. Up we
go in the winding way, now to the right, now to the left but ever
upwards: glimpses are opening but quickly closing again, as though
jealous of our anticipating what is in store, until at last we suddenly
stand upon the summit of the cliff and the scene lies before us.
No; not quite so, for the trees partially close in the view ; so that
we have to deacend a short way down the face of the cliff until
we reach a summer-house on a well protected platform which juts
out like a balcony and reveals the whole prospect.

The scene is certainly very striking. “The cliff rises nine
hundred feet above the Wye; it is a precipice, barren, tree-
less, and nearly perpendicular for several hundred feet, then it sud-
denly passes into a richly wooded ravine, which ewells out until it

194 On the Wye.

combines near its base with the luxuriant woods which shut in the
high road on both sides. The view is extensive and novel ; for it has
two rivers, the Wye and the Severn, to wind their waters amid
the fertile lands and to contribute each its share, and those so diffe-
rent, to the general effect. Close beneath flashes the Wye, sweep-
ing its now brightening waters around the headlands and between
the cliffs that strive to stay ita course; wild in its rapid dash, and
playful in its sudden curvings, a spoilt child of nature, our own
‘Wye we call it and feel it to be; while in the near distance the
majestic Severn sweeps its abundant waters in a broad channel,
and seems in its occasional near approach to keep a matronly eye
upon its wayward child. Surely nowhere are waters ao closely
united, and yet so distinct; so full of life, and yet with charac-
teristics which individualize them, that one can never be mis-
taken for the other; while beyond these exquisite combinations of
abundant foliage, rich meadows and water, just where it is most
needed to complete the home picture, spreads the line of coast,
with historic castles on the heights, and all backed again by hills
which grow almost into mountains, or at least serve the purpose
of such, in framing and completing the charming picture.

The descent is by a winding path which creeps around the face
of the cliff, now clinging boldly but guardedly to its surface, now
penetrating the rock itself, piercing a way through what seems a
natural cavern, and by flights of many rustic steps working a
devious path amid the thickly clustered trees that clothe ita lower
heights, until it leads to a moss cottage where the wearied
traveller finds repose.

The next day we rail to Tintern, and review our ramble of the
previous day, seeing the Wyndcliff from the opposite side of the
river. Before long Tintern Abbey comes suddenly into view, the
train dashing along and high up one of the cliffs that here close
in the Wye; and then as suddenly plunges into a tunnel which
makes the glimpse of the venerable abbey more than ever like a
vision. Our short railway journey had so far brutalised us that
we absolutely wished for a station at this sacred spot, and growled
when we found, on once more emerging into sunlight, that it was
more than a mile from the abbey. When we grew into a better
frame of mind, on leaving the train and walking through the
beautiful country, and the pretty village which still clusters around
the venerable ruins, we began to appreciate the right feeling which
carried the line amid the trees and through the cliffs, beyond the
sacred precincts. If the train must come, at least let it) move

On the Wye. 195

silently, and, so to say, walk on tiptoe here. What can be said of
Tintern Abbey which has not already been said P—of its well-chosen
position, in a bright meadow formed by a bend of the Wye ; of its
noble proportions, so simple and yet so exquisitely beautiful; of
the loving and reverential care with which it is preserved, and
which seems to guard each fragment as though it were a choice
treasure. The same names are continually recurring in these parts.

The De Clares, who built Chepstow Castle, were the founders of
this Cistercian Abbey—and of course Strongbow is named in con-
nection with both; but more it must needs be with the castle than
the abbey. And passing from those twelfth century times to
our own, we owe no little to the present inheritor of both, the
Duke of Beaufort’s care being remarkable alike in abbey and in
castle.

Much, very much, of the abbey remains : its principal features
are not only well defined, but are in excellent preservation. Where
columns have fallen in the nave the bases yet remain to mark their
site. The east and west ends, with their grand and beautiful
window-tracery, are perfect. Indeed it seems as though, were the
ivy stripped off, the tower rebuilt, and the roof renewed, but little
more would be needed to make the church what it was when its
last abbot and his twelve brethren left it under the rude hand of
the oppressor. And yet we question if many of its visitors would
wish to see Tintern Abbey thus restored. That religious should
once more do their holy work on the banks of the Wye every
Catholic must desire and hope, such restoration is a consumma-
tion devoutly to be wished ; but to repair and renovate these vener-
able ruins, to make these dead bones live, to patch the present on
to the past, and ao to strive to reconstruct a Tintern which is neither
ancient nor modern, but a confusion of both, would, at least to our
seeming, be a spoiling of what is beautiful in its decay without
any that can be called an equivalent gain. No ; let us build our
churches and monasteries as best we may, profiting by the lessons
we may learn from these and such like venerable remains; but let
us not lay even reverential hands upon the fragments that time has
left us of the ancient religious edifices of the land. They are a
part of the national history, a page, like many others, to make the
heart glow with an honest pride in what has once been, and to
make the cheek blush at the indignities which have been offered to
our Holy Faith. They tell their own tale and teach their own
lesson, which we may be sure will not, the one be forgotten nor
the other lost. Few visit such spots without in some degree leaving

Vou, xm., No. 143.

196 On the Wye.

them the wieer and better for the visit. The past speaks eloquently
in them, and numbers will listen in reverence to that past who
would turn coldly away from the voice of the present, reason how
it may. Anyhow, let the past do its work, and then, and not till
then, will the present speak effectively.

There is a charming hotel at Tintern, “ a cottage of gentility,”
set in the midet of flower-beds, as bright and blooming as any of
them in right of ite rose-clustered walls and ivy-clad gables—a
pleasant resting-place for those who wish to see Tintern aright
by visiting it in the pale moonlight. For ourselves we linger not,
generally finding it a mistake to remain long amid such scenes ;
for in truth, except for an artist, they are soon exhausted. Besides
we have a castle to visit, before we take up our quarters for
the night at Monmouth. So the train once more receives us, and
we dash along to that birthplace of Falstaff’s Prince Hal, and
hasten still onward to Rhaglan Castle, which gave his title to
another warrior, the hero of Sebastopol, that brave and modest
Lord Fitzroy Somerset, whose fair fame was for a moment
darkened by the ignorant misrepresentations of a newspaper cor-
respondent.

Rhaglan Castle, says the historian, is situated in that part of
the ancient country of Gwent called Cantret Iscoed, and in the
crommwd of Tref-y-Grug, and worthy is it of all these high-sound-
ing names, for it is indeed a splendid ruin. Castles here and else-
where may be divided into ancient and modern, but with a further
distinction of the term modern, which we would call ancient-
modern and modern-modern, did we not fear confusing our reader
with what look like fine distinctions, but which are not withouta
difference which we can easily illustrate. Goodrich has its ancient
castle, and within a stone’s throw of it another of yesterday. But
here Rhaglan is itself both ancient and modern, being in the
twelfth century, like Chepstow and Tintern, the possession of the
De Clares, and was held by Richard Strongbow, who was not only
Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Chepstow, but Lord of Rhaglan
too. Its modern character connects it with the times of the Rebel-
lion, with Charles the First, who often stayed here, and with that
learned and valorous Marquis of Worcester, whose name has a
place, and that no mean one, alike in the records of chivalry and
of natural science. But modern castles before the time of the
Commonwealth were very different from those now built. They
were not indeed the grim edifices which men raised for war, and
almost for war only. Everything else was no longer made subor-

On the Wye. 197

dinate to strength, though strength had to be duly considered.
They were characteristic, as their predecessors had been, of the
times in which they were built. The laws were better observed,
were more rigidly enforced, so people lived in greater security and
breathed more freely ; yet was there still a sense of danger, and men
had not yet forgotten how not long before they had to trust very
much in themselves and to feel that their house was their own only
when it was a well-fortified castle. So modern Rhaglan was first
a residence and next a castle, but still after all a fortified residence.
Bo we find it strong enough to resist a siege, but withal a pleasant
mansion with noble courtyards, a grand and well-lighted baronial
hall, rich carvings, and a broad terrace, with spacious staircases
and marble fountains. It still has its three huge pentagonal towers,
its lofty portal, and close at hand, the special feature of early days,
the massive hexagonal citadel, the Tower of Gwent. How grandly
these noble and varied features blend together rising up from the
broad moat. It is in its way a thing of beauty, of manly, valorous,
and yet also of feminine delicate beauty. It tells alike of the stern
courage, and the careless gaiety which marked the period in which
it flourished, and in which it fell; for,in 1642, Worcester sur-
rendered his sword to Fairfax.

And Cromwell, in very wantonness of power, in spite of the
capitulation, blew up two angles of the Gwent Tower, and left
it, as it has ever since remained, a picturesque ruin, rich in natural
beauty and in memories both gay and sad, of that recent past which
seems so rapidly fading away to take its place among the earlier
traditions which still linger around Rhaglan. We return to Mon-
mouth, of which we have hitherto seen but the railway station,
and find it pleasantly situated in a wide plain at the junction of
two rivers, the Wye and the Monnow. Hence its name, for the
latter river used to be called the Mone; and of course the town
stands where this river pours itself into the Wye, and is Monmouth:
It is surrounded by lofty, well-wooded hills, and indeed stands upon
anything but level ground ; so we climb the high street, look with
as much reverence as we can, and with as uncritical an eye as
possible, upon the leaden statue of Harry of Monmouth, Prince
Hal, the hero of Agincourt, Henry the Fifth, which you will, for
each namo tells of one who in so many ways was and is the idol of
the English people. Of course, Monmouth had its castle where the
prince was born’; and equally, of course, Cromwell battered it down
soon after Rhaglan fell. Little remains are now to be seen, and
these are too uninteresting to reward a visit.

198 On the Wye.

Once more upon the rail, which pleasantly skirts the bright
waters of the Wye, and seems to resolve itself into a tourist line
that seeks and reveals the varied beauties of the charming valley.
Ere long—for all the distances are short on this miniature line
which respectfully humbles itself before the grand old ruins amid
which it winds—ere long we leave the train and climb the heights
to Goodrich Castle. A steep climb we find it, when we venture from
the road and work our way over corn fields which are almost Alpine
in their character to the entrance of the castle, which is buried
among the trees. Here we are once more amid the buildings of
the De Clares; back again into the eleventh century of Chepstow
and Tintern, when strength was everything, and when the refine-
ments and splendour of Rhaglan were unthought of. Here it
stands, perched upon the crown of the woody precipice, a feudal
fortress, shut in by its barbican, and frowning grimly down upon
any enemy who should venture near its lofty and massive walls.
More is left for the imagination to fill in than at Rhaglan; for
here the simple outlines are nearly all that remains. A striking
feature in a large hall stands a solitary pillar of great height sup-
porting a single pointed arch and nothing else. It could scarcely
be a flight of fancy or a mere architectural puzzle where all around
is so real and solemn. We give it up, and turning lose ourselves
ina grim chamber which commands the portal by a narrow opening
and yet seems to have beenachapel. If ao, it is significant enough
of the danger that surrounded devotion, and preaches a sermon
upon the somewhat vulgar text: —“ Put your trust in Providence
and keep your powder dry.”

‘We gossipped with the ancient guardian of the castle and with
his guardian and wife, who had thus the charge of two venerable
ruins, and were surprised to hear that the most frequent visitor is
the Duke of Beaufort who, though not the possessor, seems to take
san much interest in Goodrich as in his own Chepstow and Rhaglan.

Almost within a stone’s throw of Goodrich Castle stands Good-
rich Court. On as bold a height, and with towers and pinnacles,
turrets and portal, drawbridge and moats, as imposing and indeed
much more imposing than. the grand old castle it mocks ; for Good-
rich Court is a sham, not indeed a lath and plaster stage scene, but
nearly as unreal, and certainly much less respectable. It is a thing
of yesterday, a modern house masquerading, a nineteenth century
erection aping one of the twelfth. Why this pretentious thing
should be planted here, when in a fashionable suburb it would be
in keeping with other affectations around it, while here’ it ‘serves

.
On the Wye. 199

but to flout the ruins gray, it is difficult to imagine, for its proprie~
tor and designer, Sir Samuel Meyrick, was a man of taste. His
specialty was the collecting of ancient armour and arms; and
when we visited Goodrich Court, in other and now distant days,
it was to see this renowned collection. The nation years ago
became possessed of it, when it was transferred to the Tower of
London, and so this modern antique offers no attraction to the
tourist, and the resident family have it peaceably to themselves.

Sightseeing is an appetising pursuit, especially where there is
much climbing involved ; and so the remembrance of two small
hotels near the station draws us down to the picturesque village,
where there are scarcely two houses on the same level. But signs
are but pictures,and promises of entertainment to the eye are doomed
to be broken to the hope. Neither hotel can furnish bread, not
one pennyworth of bread, to all the sack or beer they can provide.
The baker, itseems, has not yet arrived from Monmouth, and we are
left lamenting. So on we walk, thoughtful and hungry, prepared
(bat in no philosophic temper) to muse on the vanity of human
wishes.

But now we see a beer-shop, and that provides us with a modest
repast which neither of the hotels could supply. We think better
of humanity, and walk on to Ross: .

“Rise, honest muso! and sing the Man of Ross.

Well, Pope has forestalled us, and we sing nothing of the many
good things Kyrle the philanthropist did with very limited means,
save that one of the trees of the fine avenue he planted in the
churchyard has wonderfully vindicated his memory when a certain
vicar tried todamageit. It seems the trees were not only beautiful
but valuable, and so his reverence cut down one or more near the
church, and sold the timber for—let us charitably assume—the
benefit of the poor. But Kyrle’s tree was not to be despatched so
easily ; it was cut down outside the church, but rose up again within.
The roots threw up suckers which worked their way under the walls
of the sacred edifice, and shot up into life and vigour, and have
grown into one or two trees in the midst of a pew, under whose
ahade the pious people sit and listen to the singing of the mixed
choir of people and birds.

Ross, or more correctly Rhos, is, as its name implies, a moist
meadow. Very swampy are the environs, but the town itself runs
up a high street which leads to others still higher—indeed it is all
ups and downs—while at its highest point, and overhanging the

.
200 De Arte Poetioa.

road on the edge of what is almost a precipice, so high and steep
is it, stands Barratt’s Hotel, the home of honeymooners and the
delight of all visitors. Charming walks and drives to the wood-
crowned heights above, and along the shore of the beautiful Wye ;
boating on the bright crystal waters, excursions to other castles of
which we have not time nor space to tell ; a railway-run to Hereford
and its restored cathedral, another to Gloucester and its like attrac-
tion, with Cheltenham close beside: these are attractions which,
added to those we have pointed out, make a visit to the Wye a
bright and varied holiday. To those who are passing to London
through Bristol, or by Milford Haven from Ireland, it offersa plea-
sant break in the journey, and will well repay the time devoted
to it.

DE ARTE POETICA.
AW AMCEBJRAN LAY.
Palamon. Tityrus. Corydon.

P. (XOME, Tityrus, explain to us, for surely you must know it,
‘The mark whereby the modern eye doth recognize a Poet,
And, Corydon, they say you're'on a footing with the Muses,
‘The art rehearse of making verse that praised by our Reviews is.

T. First you may sing of everything in Ocean, Air, and Land;
Of pictures and of politics, of plants and planete—and
Tn fact of anything at all you do not understand.

C. Would you this clever age of ours should take you for a Bard?
Then be your grein of meaning small and let the shell be hard:
‘And leat you should be understood be much upon your guard.

T. "Twere better so you nought should know of what you speak about ;
For though you may your meaning hide right artfully no doubt,
‘Yet if you Aave a meaning,—why | some one may make it out!

C. To have a meaning do I hold to be the better fun,
And then to scatter words until there seemeth to be none;
And mark the puzzlement of those your artfulness has done.

De Arte Poetica. 201

T. Nay! nay! 'tis sport of higher sort to know there is no sense ;
And then of something meant to make elaborate pretence,
Until the reader thinks he must indeed be very dense.

C. The model of my muse shall be the crafty-witted fox,
That makes his cunniog nest among the crannies of the rocks,
‘And bids the hunter dig for him through adamentine blocks.

T. AsChabb or Milner doth compose a thiet-defying box,
So for the mintage of my muse I forge a score of locks;
And if a burglar pick them,—then he'll find a paradox.

C. It much imports to have besides a philosophic view ;
If, save that with its genesis have Germans got to do,
You furnish to your labyrinth no manneaof a clue.

T. esthetic canons to enforce it doth avail no less,
If only what those canons be you cannot make a guess,
And if you adequately do your state of mind exprese.

©, Remember though your grammar grow occasionally clear,
With comprehensibility that need not interfere:
"Tis triumph manifest if then none can your thoughts come near.

7. The substance to your own device you well may leave alone;
It only you do not forget the richness of your tone:
And if the flowers of speech you use be all in hot-bouse grown.

C. And when you spread your wings, instead of thinking where you're going,
Leave, leave your course unto the force of any winds are blowing:
Winds, I assume, that breathe perfume and like Siroceo glowing.

T. So, so, but do, and critics you will rate as now they rate us.

Cz Do, do, but so, and you will know what's meant by our afflatus.
7.6.

(202)

LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

(REDERIC Ozanam, writing to his friend M. Lenormant, says :
“I know not what God may ordain for us henceforth, but I
know that in choosing our friends for us He has done quite enough
for the honour and happiness of our lives.” Those who were
pivileged to have Lady Georgiana Fullerton as their friend, may
well echo these words. She was one of God's chosen souls—
one of those richly endowed beings who now and again stand
amongst us, and who, when they depart, leave a void behind them
never to be filled.

Lady Georgiana’s name is, of course, widely known. She was
the author of some twenty volumes, besides contributing various
short articles to different periodicals. And those who know her
writings to a great extent know her also, for she poured out her
soul in her books.

The story of her life can be briefly told.

Lady Georgiana Leveson Gower was born in 1812, on Septem-
ber 23rd, the eve of ‘Our Lady of Mercy.” She left England as
a child to spend the years of her girlhood in Paris. Her father,
after having filled the post of English Ambassador in Russia,
held a similar position in France.

Lady Georgiana’s early life was a happy one. She tells us this

herself in her “ Verses : ”—

é And years flew by like a few fleeting hours,
Days full of happiness too great for earth.”

She was one of a family circle where mutual affection reigned
supreme, and had its roots so strongly planted that the wear and
tear of time, even the difference in religion which often breaks
the closest bonds, brought no shadow on its brightness. And her
marriage, in 1833, to Mr. Alexander Fullerton, only added a new
tie without disturbing any of the old ones. It did not separate
her from her family. The inevitable breaking up did not come
till 1841, when Earl Granville ceased to be British Ambassador
in France, and Lady Georgiana sadly wrote :—

« Farewell, old house!
Of thee a final mournful leave I take,
Long as my life, and on this parting day
My eyes o'erflow.”

Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 203

Before this epoch, Lady Georgiana had become 2 mother. Her
first and only child was a son, the joy and pride of his parent’s
heart.

In 1842, Mr. Fullerton was received into the Church, and in
1846 his wife took the same step. Her nature was one which felt
to its very depths those throes of anguish which most, if not all,
converts have to endure as they pass through the dim vestibule of
doubt and fear which leads to the threshold wherein dwell light
and peace. The landmarks of a childhood’s creed are rudely
removed, the supports of a lifetime shake and tremble, the
old belief is obscured or lost, the Faith is as yet hidden in
shadows.

Let her own eloquent words describe this suffering in her verses

* addressed to “ Mother Church :”

“Oh, that thy creed were sound, I cried,

Until I felt ite power,

And almost prayed to find it false
In the decisive hour.

Great was the struggle, fierce the strife,
But wonderful the gain,

For not one trial or one pang,
‘Was sent or felt in vain,

And every link of that long chain
That led my soul to thee,

Remains a monument of all
Thy merey wrought for me.”

Lady Georgiana never lost her first fervour. Her life became
identified, so to speak, with the life of the Church. She found ever
fresh joy in its services. “ How few Holy Weeks there are left to
me!” she said once in her simple childlike way. ‘“ Even if I
live to be very old, I could not have more than twenty.” Alas!
she scarcely enjoyed half that number ; but she has lost her regret
now in the joy of the eternal Easter. ”

A few years after her conversion came the crushing sorrow of
her life. Her only child, the delight of her eyes, the idol of her
heart, was snatched from her by accident. It was not vouchsafed
to her to hear a farewell word, to give a last fond kiss. While absent
from her—all in a minute—his young life was quenched.

It is true to say of her that from this blow she never rallied.
The sword entered her soul and remained there till the end. The
grief was so deep no one ever dared to touch it, even by words of
sympathy. The tears she shed in secret none may know; but we

204 Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

may be sure of this—they were among those tears which God has
now with his own hand wiped away.

There are some who, possessing a keenly sensitive nature like
Lady Georgiana, never rally from a crushing blow. They devote
themselves to their grief. They live with und for their sorrow.
Not so with her. Hiding the sword in her heart, she rose up and
went forward. Even a heart break could not make her selfish, and
from the sad hour which saw her bereaved, her sympathies widened
—her love of God debpened—she began to walk in the path that
leads to sanctity. Thirty years were to pass ere she should go to
him who could never return to her ; and at their close when she is
taken from us, we who knew her gather together and say: ‘She
was a saint.” .

Lady Georgiana had always been charitable to the poor—it was -
a family tradition, deepened and increased in her by the influence
of the Catholic faith. But now into this wounded heart of hers
there came the Jove of the poor—a rare gift, and one which in her
grew and fructified till it became a passion, the ruling passion of
her life. H

She thought abdt the poor, and toiled for them. She followed
closely in the had of Him, who “ though He was rich, yet for
our sakes became poor.” She literally stripped herself of all she
had, that she might relieve the afflicted, and she laboured with her
pen as if she had to earn her own bread, and in this way she did
earn the bread of the poor. “ I feel so rich,” she said, “when
publishers pay me.” The riches were soon dispersed among her
numerous charities.

It is a trait in her character that she was at the same time ever
ready to help on Catholic literary ventures—and would then give
her productions for nothing.

Her brain was ever busy in devising schemes for these beloved
friends of hers, the poor, and thus she became on the most intimate
terms with various religious orders whose duty leads them to assist
the suffering, and she gave them every assistance in her power. It
was by her means the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul were introduced
into England; and she was actually the foundress of an Institute
devoted to the service of the miserable, “ the Poor Servants of the
Mother of God Incarnate.”

It gave her great happiness when this last named Order crossed
the channel and made a foundation in Ireland. She wrote to one
of the Irish Bishops as follows :—

“I have watched every step of its progress, and I can truly

Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 205

say that it was with deep emotion and tears of joy that I heard
of the hope of its being admitted into your country, my Lord, into
that Ireland which Sister M —— loves ao much because she knows
it, and which I love without having seen it. . If God grants me
the happiness of hearing of our ‘ poor servants’ working in Ireland
and affording assistance and consolation to her devoted priests, I
shall feel, small as has been my personal share in the work, that I
have not lived quite in vain.’

This seems a fitting place to speak of her love for Ireland,
her deep and enthusiastic love. She longed so to tread its shores,
to breathe its air, to gaze upon its picturesque ruins, to kneel at
its ancient shrines ; but this was not to be. She never saw Ireland,
but she felt deeply for her wrongs, grieved over her woes, sympa-
thised with her joys. And though she never set her foot on Irish
soil she was a true friend to many a son and daughter of Erin.
As concerns them, it was specially true that she “ delivered the
poor man that cried out, and the fatherless that had no helper.”
Chiefly as concerns them it was that she “comforted the heart of
the widow, was an eye to the blind, and a foot to the lame;”
and from many an Irish heart “the blessing of him that was
ready to perish came upon her.”

Let me again quote her own words:

“ An Trish face with dark blue eyes,
Alas, we sometimes meet those eyes
Bo innocent and bright,
In our polluted London streets,
And sadden at the sight,
Some few there are who pass unscathed
‘Through scenes of sin and woe,
Keeping their Irish hearts unstained
As their own mountain snow.
‘Yes, you can die as martyrs die
Sons of the saints of yore,
Who fell when Erin's fields were stained
With her own children’s gore.”

Lady Georgiana felt for the poor wherever she found them,
but her chief solicitude was for the Catholic poor of London, who
are with very few exceptions entirely Irish. As long as her
strength allowed her, she would go personally among them; and
well do I remember the look of peculiar peace and,joy that shone
upon her face when I met her returning from one of these excur-
sions. She was very tired, but in those days would walk instead
of taking cabs, that she might save money for her poor,

206 Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

When health would no longer permit this personal service,
she took a deeper interest still in the labours of others among the
poor. She was very fond of the little London house of the Insti-
tute, which she had founded, because it stands in a very narrow
“court” literally buried among the poor. “It is so delightful,”
she said on her last visit, “to be right among the poor.”

That visit was made on the feast of the Espousals of Our Lady,
and after paying it, she went into the Catholic Church close by,
and knelt down to pray. I watched her, and “saw her face as if
it had been the face of an angel.” Her whole soul seemed to
have gone out to God. I ought to have known then she was
not long for earth, but life without her always seemed an impos-
sible thing. That day two years I stood by her open grave. As
ill health increased upon her, and she was obliged to submit to the
use of comforts, her heart yearned more especially. over the sick
poor, and she took a special delight in the hospital opened at
St. Helens, Lancashire, by the Poor Servants of the Mother of
God.

“TI forget,” she writes, “whether I told you of my joy and
gratitude at the account of the hospital. It is a peculiar pleasure
to me at this moment.” She then goes on to speak of her failing
health, but says the doctors do not think that she is in any
danger, but that she must lead an invalid life. She adds: “I
have only to be too thankful for the comforts lavished upon
me, but whilst I contrast my lot with that of the poor, how
soothing it is to think that the Sisters are giving them relief and
comfort.”

This letter is dated the 23rd of January, 1884, and again I
recall that funeral day, when the sun came out with wonderful
radiance through the silvery mist, and the choir sang In paradisum
as we bore her to her grave.

When the hospital was opened after its migration from small
beginnings into large and commodious premises, she wrote from
her bed of sickness :'—“ I am thinking so much of next Sunday
and Monday. ‘You will be all those days exceedingly busy ; per-
haps your niece would have the charity to write to me how it has
all gone off. Really, to have the Cardinal and Father Clare sur-
passes all one’s hopes. I am so glad that those who did so
much for your small humble beginnings should witness this
development of the grain of mustard seed.”

Until her health broke down, she was a familiar figure in the
Jesuit Church in London, dressed very simply in black, but: in no

Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 207

outré or peculiar way that would attract attention. She was never
conspicuous: rather she escaped notice; strangers were often sur-
prised when the quiet, unassuming figure was pointed out to them as
that of the celebrated authoress, the leader and originator of so
many good works.

Her first care in life was her home-duties; and neither her
charities nor her friendships were ever allowed to clash with
these. But she never lost time, and had a wonderful facility
for adjusting what might have looked like conflicting claime.
For Lady Georgiana had an immense circle of friends. Her
sympathy was so deep, her judgment so solid, that people of all
classes and positions in life clung to her and leant upon her ; and
she was the model of a friend, loyal to her heart’s core, fulfilling
the words of Holy Writ: “He that is a friend loveth at all
times.”

When she took anyone into her large motherly heart, it was for
ever. When the spirit was oppressed, when stupid blunders had
been made, when faults had been committed, when the strange
waywardness and changeableness of human nature displayed itself,
she was always the same. She knew the great secret of real love
—how to wait for those who stumble and lag behind on the uphill
road of life.

Once speaking of a person who had given her an infinity of
trouble, she said with a tender smile: “ Yes, she is my enfant
terrible.”

She was essentially motherly; she never dictated nor forced
her opinion upon anyone; rather she was the one to yield. In
the first work she gave to the world, “Ellen Middleton,” she
describes a character that always seemed to me a picture of herself.
“The tenderness of her manner, the emotion which her counten-
ance betrayed, were all so totally different that I felt as if a being
from another world had come among us. There was something
heavenly in the expression of her countenance—there was some-
thing original in every word she uttered ; in her gaiety there was
a bubbling joyousness—an intense enjoyment in enjoyment—
that was irresistibly attractive. There was so much originality
in her understanding, and so much simplicity in her character—
she was so in earnest about every employment, she required
sympathy, and what she so much needed herself she amply yielded
to others. I never met in my life with anyone who entered into
the feelings of those about her, as she did.”

But later on the character loses its resemblance, for the writer

208 Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

says that “ she followed with ardour whatever was the impulse and
fancy of the moment,” and this was precisely what Lady Georgiana
did not do. .

Any notice of her, however brief, would be very incomplete if
it omitted to dwell on the character of her deep spirituality. For
many years, until in fact her health totally failed, she was in the
habit of making the “Exercises of St. Ignatius” under the
direction of the Fathers of the Society of Jesus, generally her own
spiritual director, Father Gallwey. She was essentially a “ Child
of St. Ignatius,” with an enthusiastic affection for the great
Society which he founded.

No one who knows well the “ Exercises,” and also knew well
Lady Georgiana could fail to remark how they had moulded her
mind and character. For in her all was done in order and in pro-
portion; she exercised strict self-control over herself; she knew
how to use for the greater glory of God the advantages of her
high rank and position, her acquaintance with the most celebrated
men of her day, while at the same time no one was a more kearty
contemner of the world. She was thoroughly and entirely un-
worldly. She saw not with the world’s eyes, she never weighed
with the world’s measures, she despised the world, and as has
been revealed to us by her spiritual Father in her funeral sermon,
she “loved and embraced with all her heart what the world
hates.” She actually bound herself by vow to practise evangeli-
cal poverty.

Nor must we forget the contemplative aide of Lady Georgiana’s
character, her spirit of prayer, and her practice of the interior
life.

“I wish,” she writes, “I was no older than you. It frightens
me to think how little time 1 have left at most to redeem the past.
Make the best of yours, not by increased activity, but by absolute.
surrender of self to God.”

She was on intimate terms with many of the enclosed Orders,
and was bound by bonds of close and devoted affection to the
“Religious of the Sacred Heart,” in whose beautiful convent at
Rochampton she was a familiar figure. She was a “Child of
Mary” of the sodality directed by these nuns; she was much
attached to this Congregation, and at the time of her death was
its President.

I need not speak of her humility. I shall have failed in my
object altogether if I have not shown that humility was the atmos-
phere in which she breathed. She was humble, without: any

Lady Georgiana Fullerton 209

apparent effort ; nothing pleased her better than to pass unknown
and to be made of no account.

Obedient as a child to those who had authority over her, she
was ready to yield her will and judgment to her inferiors.

“When people make suggestions,” she said one day, speaking
of literary composition, “ I always feel so inclined to adopt them ;
they seem to me so much better than my own ideas.”

Again she writes: “It isan act of renouncement of my own
understanding to comply with your desires and write to——
which I have done. It seemed to me sv absurd that J should ask
for his consent.”

It was once said of a remarkable woman, that “to know her
was a liberal education.” I think J may say with truth that to
know Lady Georgiana was a spiritual education.

The loss of her son was by no means the only sorrow of her
life. Indeed her warm, ardent affections were wounded on every
side. Her brother-in-law died almost suddenly. When she
hastened to the side of her only and beloved sister to console
her, it was too Jate: Lady Rivers had herself departed. One of
her nieces went, full of life and hope and happiness, to spend
her honeymoon in Switzerland; the young bride was killed by
a lightning flash while on a mountain ramble with her husband.
None of her sister’s four sons, though bright blooming children,
lived to grow up.

She felt keenly the unexpected death of her dear friend Cecil,
Marchioness of Lothian, who copied her virtues and went with the
courage habitual to her as a pilgrim to Rome in 1877. She reached
the Eternal City, and died within its walls. .

And among her friends was that true-hearted Irishwoman,
Elizabeth, Marchioness of Londonderry. One of the last sorrows
of Lady Georgiana’s life was the death of this friend, so
eminent for her good works, She writes on the 8lat of last
August:

“Lady Londonderry is much worse, and the end near. I had
never hoped to see her dear beautiful face again ; but, oh ! the end
of this long friendship and common work is painful, even though
T shall not linger long after her.”

Lady Georgiana fulfilled the long tale of three-score years
and twelve, yet she never grew old in heart. She kept to the
last all the enthusiasms, I might almost say the romance, of her
youth.

210 Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

She never grew tired of people or things. The triumphs of
the Church, heroic acts, the success of a good work, stirred all the
pulses of her heart; she was for ever discovering new beauties in the
“vineyard upon a fruitful hill,” the holy Church of God which
she loved so passionately, and for the sorrows and joys of her
friends her sympathy was ever welling fresh from her heart. She
took a special delight in giving pleasure to others: “ Now give the
Sisters a little treat,” she would say. “Mind, not a retreat but a
treat.” She liked school feasts and entertainments of all kinds
for the poor. Specially did she like to send the London poor to
see green trees and breathe fresh country air.

Memory recalls her face shining with delight at a certain
“Garden Party for the poor,” in 1881 in the convent grounds of
the Mother-house of the Institute which she had founded, when
three hundred old and young of her beloved poor were gathered
around her, while a military band discoursed sweet music. And
memory recalls the sound of her joyous laugh, wher. his Eminence
the Cardinal Archbishop, also present, told her “ she was teaching
the nuns to be worldly.” At intervals she would creep away from
the merry throng into the little chapel to adore her Lord in the
Tabernacle; and then when the time came for her to leave for
London, she said, “ Oh, what a perfect day! I have enjoyed
myself so much.”

Every little mark of attention or affection elicited from her
such an ardent response. The last time she was in London I
happened to take her a little basket full of passion-flowers. “Oh,
my dear,” she exclaimed, “ you don’t know what passion-flowers
are to me.” Was it an omen I should give her a passion-
flower the last time I saw her on her feet just when the “' passion ”
of her life was about to begin P

She went to Bournemouth, for the winter as we thought, but
she never returned. For nearly a year she was nailed to her bed
of suffering—a long, slow martyrdom during which the intellect
burnt as bright as ever, and the heart grew only more tender.

The precious hours spent in that sick-room will never be
forgotten.

While perfectly resigned to the will of God, she had no long-
ing for death, she was too unselfish even for that, she knew how
desolate she would leave her home, she knew the wound, never to
be healed, her death would implant in the hearts of others.

But God wanted his child whom He had tried and found
worthy for Himself.

At Daybreak. 211

And so the end came, her last earthly thouglits for others, her
last glances upon the crucifix, the last sounds in her ear the story
of thé Passion of her beloved Lord. She passed without a sigh.

The pall-bearers at her funeral were “ Children of Mary,” and
a large number of ladies of that Sodality followed her to the grave.

The Requiem Mass was sung and the funeral sermon preached
by Father Gallwey, in the chapel of the Convent of the Sacred
Heart, Rochampton; and, in compliance with her own special
request, she was buried in the convent cemetery.

For many life will never be the same without her. But one
desire of her ardent, generous heart has been fulfilled, she wished
to “do something that would live after her,” and we humbly trust
that in the future as well as in the present, there shall be given to
her “of the fruit of her hands, and her works shall praise her in
the gates,” while the members of the Institute she called into
existence have the right to say: “ Hail, and farewell, good Mother!
Live in God, and do not forget your children.” RT

AT DAYBREAK.

IHERE came a voice at midnight through the rain,

The knocking of a hand upon my door,

“Open, my heart !” the sweet voice pleaded sore ;
“Open! how long wilt thou deny my pain P”
And I but stirred, and turned to dreams again,

Heavy with fumes of poppy and mandragore,

‘And while all night tempestuous winds did roar,
Broken with tears the voice cried on in vain.

Now I awake at dawn and understand,
« Down, thou wild heart! He yet may wait,” I say;
And I unber the door with trembling hand,
Only the rose-gold hills that front the day,
Only dark leagues on leagues of forest-land.
Lo! Lam grown a-sudden old and gray.

Vor. xii, No. 142. 7

€21.)

THE CANONICAL HOURS OF THEPAS3ION."
At Mating
ALLEN man to raise and rescue from the demon's deadly power,
Christ the Son of God was taken captive at the Matin hour ;
By his chosen, his disciples, left abandoned and alone,
To his foes betrayed, delivered ; all forsaken by his own.

At Lauds,
At the hour of Lauds did Caiphas doom the Lord of life to die,
‘Awful was the word arraigning God Himself of blasphemy;
By the crowd insultod, spat on, blinded, smitten, vilified ;
By the chief of his apostles, Pater, was he thrice denied.

At Prime

At the hour of Prime they lead Him unto Pilate’s judgment-hall,
Sent from thence to wicked Herod; made a mockery by all.
By the Jewish custom Pilate freed a prisoner at their choice,
‘Not for Jesus but Barabbas did the people raise their voice.

At Tierce,

At the hour of Tierce they scourge Him, clothe Him in a purple vest,
‘While a crown of woven thorn is on his sacred forehead pressed,

“ Crucify him! crucify him!” is the cry that fills the air;

“Then they lay the cross upon Him unto Golgotha to bear.

At Sat.

At the hour of Sext all patient is He stretched upon the tree;
‘Through his hands and through his feet the nails are driven cruelly,
‘Vinegar and gall the potion which they give his lips to taste;

In the midst between two robbers is the cross of Jesus placed.

At None,
At the hour of None expiring, “ Heli, Heli!” is his ery ;
As his spirit He commendeth to his Father, doth He die.
‘Then the very earth did tremble and the sun his light denied,
Came at length the Roman soldier with a lance to pierce his side.
At Vespers.
At the hour of Vespers, Jesus from the cross was brought below :
‘Thus did Life iteelf, by dying, life upon the dead bestow.
‘Under earth his spirit enters, where the souls his coming wait,
That He may from pain release them, shattering the prison gate.
Complin,
At the hour of Complin Jesus in the sepulchre is laid,
And, with spices for embalming, is in linen folds arrayed.
‘With a stone is closed the entrance, and the tomb is sealed and barred ;
All the night in watch around it sit the soldiers of the guard.
Thus obedient to the Canon, we these hours devoutly sing,
Unto Thee, our Saviour Jesus, unto Thee, Eternal King!
‘That as Thou in pain and torment for our life didst deign to die,
‘We, partakers of thy Passion, may partake thy crown on high.

“See Mone, Lateinische Hymnen des Mittolalters, vol. i., p. 110, &e., where
coveral versions are given, some of considerable length. The striking feature
is, of course, the division of the time of the Passion into the canonical hours ;

( 218 )
HOR DE PASSIONE DOMINI.

Ad Matutinam,
T homo resurgeret mortis a ruin&
Dei natus captus est horá matutina

A suis discipulis et notia relictus
Judeeis est venditus, traditus, afflictus.

Ad Laudes,
Hora laudum Pontifex dicit mortis reum
Sontem ut blasphemis damnat Ipsum Deum,
Plagis, sputis, alapis, totus cordidatur,
A Petro apostolo Christus ter negatur.

Ad Primam,
Hora prima ductus est Jesus ad Pilatum,
Inde destinatus ad Herodem sceleratum.
Unum vinetum redimit populus de more:
“Ta non Jesum sed Barabbam” claimant in furore.

Ad Tertiam.
Hora vero tertiá diré flagellatur,
Purpura induitur, spinis coronatur,
Crucifigi petitur quod mox demandatur ;
Crux ad locumGolgotha sibi ferri datur.

Ad Sextam.
Hora Sextá patiens cruci applicatur,
Extensis manibus et pedibus clavatur ;
Cum aceto sitiens et felle potatur,
Pendens cum latronibus, cum eis reputatur.

Ad Nonam.

Hora Nona dominus Jesus expiravit,
“« Heli” clamans animam patri commendavit;
Terra tunc contremuit et sol obscuravit,
Ejus latus lancea miles perforavit.

Ad Vesperas,
De cruce deponitur hori Vesperorum,
Mori sic disposuit vita mortuoram
Ut suos redimeret a poonis tortorum
Descendens ad inferos fregit portas horum.

Ad Completorium.

Hora Completorii sepulture datur,
Conditur aromate, sindone circumdatur,
Mooumenti ostium cum saxo signatur
Milites custodiunt ne furtim tollatur.

Has horas Canonicas cum devotione

Tibi, Jesu, canimus pia ratione,

Ut. sicut tu passus os poonas in agone,

Nos, angoris socii, simus et coronm,
otherwise the verse is of a simplicity even to baldness, nót ‘very consonant with
modern taste.

u 914 )

NEW BOOKS.

A suorr paper in our December Number was entitled “Katharine
Tynan’s Poems,” and it ended with the hope that, after the specimens
we had given of this fresh and exquisite Muse, our readers would join
with us in turning the title of the article into a prophecy and a prayer,
namely, that Miss Tynan might soon collect into a dainty volume
her poetry now scattered over many periodicals in Dublin, London, ané
New York. The prayer has been granted and the prophecy has beer
fulfilled much more speedily and satisfactorily than we had looked for.
Messrs, Kegan Paul, Trench, and Company—the eminent London
Publishers of Lord Tennyson, Aubrey de Vere, and most of the dis-
tinguished poete—are to be sponsors also for “ Louise la Vallidre, and
other Poems, by Katharine Tynan,” which, issuing about Easter from
No. 1 Paternoster-square, will thus be brought at once within the
ken of critics who could not be expected to see much good in them if
they came from Nazareth or Sackville-street.

“Memoir and Letters of Jenny C. White del Bal, by her Mother,
Rhoda E. White” (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son), is a very interesting
and edifying work of the same class as Madame Craven’s Recit Dune
Seur. ‘Little Jenny White” was the daughter of Rhoda Water-
man and Judge James White of New York, whose mother was Gerald
Griffin’s eldest sister. Readers of the excellent biography which Dr.
Daniel Griffin of Limerick published of his amiable, holy, and gifted
brother will remember that nearly all their sisters settled in America.
Fifty pages tell us the simple story of an American girl’s life from
her birth in 1835 to her marriage in 1863 ; and then her own letters
fill three hundred pages and tell all that remains to be told Her
husband was a Spanish gentleman, Bernardino del Bal, with whom
she settled at Santiago, an old Spanish town of New Granada, near the
Iethmus of Panama. Her efforts to promote religion in her new home
were most earnest and edifying; and the glimpses we get of herself
and her surroundings make the reader feel an affectionate interest in
her memory. For she isa memory. She died after four years’ exile ;
for so it seemed to her, in spite of a good husband and her two little
children. Her mother has fulfilled well her pious task. It is a com-
fort and an incentive to be reminded that there are holy souls like this
working out their term of probation in every corner of the world.

The author of “ Tyborne,” and of many other excellent and edifying
books has added to our religious literature, under the title of “A Mar-
yvellous History,” a biography of Jane de la None, foundress of the
Sisters of St. Anne of the Providence at Saumur. It is published by
Mesars. Burns & Oates, and dedicated “to the Lady Georgiana

Notes on New Books. 215

Fullerton, in memory of many years,” while the profits of the work
are devoted to Holy Cross Hospital, St. Helens, Lancashire, of which
an interesting account is furnished in an appendix. Gracefully
written, skilfully broken up into short chapters with taking names,
this well-printed volume does more justice to its subject than any
similar biography that has fallen into our hands for a long time. The
«writer in one place almost expresses surprise at St. Anne being chosen as
Patroness for the holy enterprise of this valiant woman of nearly two
hundred years ago. Apart from St. Anne's own claims, Saumur is near
enough to Auray to account for any honour bestowed upon her whom
her devoted Bretons call with affectionate familiarity Ja bonne Vieille.

Another book by the same author as the preceding—who is a proof
of the saying that the busiest people have most leisure—* Lost, and
other Tales for Children” (London: Burns & Oates). The “ other
tales” are “Lottie” and “ Miss Tea,” and each of the three is very
-wisely not translated but only adapted from the French. This attrac-
tive little volume is the latest addition to the Granville Popular Library.

We are delighted to see that “ Uriel,” the exquisite tale which is
familiar to most of our readers, is duly appreciated in the genuine
literary world, of which one of the best accredited organs of criticism
is The Spectator. This thoughtful journal describes “Uriel” as “a
well-written story of common life, with the element of the picturesque
and even the romantic, more than commonly developed init. There
is just a touch of controversy ; but it need not offend, or spoil for any
reader a pleasant book.”

‘Why has not that earlier story by the same gifted writer—“ The
‘New Utopia ”—appeared in a form proper for circulation in our lending
libraries? But we have in vain asked a similar question with regard
to “ Wafted Seeds,” which is hidden away in bygone volumes of The
Month. When it takes a new lease of life in an independent volume,
we shall place it very high in the list of harmless novels which we
are often urged to compile.

It would be impertinence to praise, and it is only necessary to
announce, Mr. Lilly’s long-expected volume of “ Characteristics,
Political, Philosophical, and Religious, from the Writings of Henry
Edward, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster” (Burns & Oates).
Many will marvel at such an exhibition of deep thought on so many
abstruse subjects which would seem foreign to the tastes of one who
is so pre-eminently a man of action as Cardinal Manning.

The English kings, many of whom were good for nothing else, serve
the useful purpose of dividing the history of England into chapters
convenient for schoolboys’ lessons. The absence of these ‘divisions
makes [righ history less easy to follow. Mesers. Marcus Ward & Oo.,
(Belfast, London, and New York) have recently brought out a “ History
of Ireland for Schools,” by William Francis Collier, LL.D. | Dr,

216 Notes on New Books.

Collier is a Protestant but he was evidently instructed to confine
himself to a clear and impartial statement of facts, and he has on the
whole done his work very well. The publishers have done their part
admirably. The arrangements of type, dates, &c., will help the
learner, and excellent illustrations stud the pages, representing Irish
places, persons, and things of special interest. This is a meritorious
work and deserves encouragement.

Another contribution to the knowledge of Irish history, of very
much higher dignity and worth, is Mr. Charles George Walpole’s
“‘Bhort History of the Kingdom of Ireland” (London: Kegan Paul,
Trench, & Co.) The Author, an English Protestant barrister, has
manifestly studied all the historical materials with great diligence and
in a very impartial and conscientious spirit. The two editions which
have in a short time been bought in England must have given to many
Englishmen for the first time a clear and fair idea of the course of
Irish history. Mr. Walpole's manly, unaffected style makes his
narrative very agreeable reading, and the maps of Ireland at different
dates help us to follow the march of events. Even for Irishmen who
want to know something of their country’s story, this is perhaps on
the whole the most serviceable handbook to put into their hands.

Those whom it concerns will be glad to have in a handy sixpenny
volume, of which the Dublin publishers are M. H. Gill & Son, “The
Irish Tonic Sol-faist: a course of graded exercises on the Tonic Sol-
fa method of teaching to sing, edited on the plan of Mr. Curwen’s
Standard Course of Lessons by a Priest of St. Vincent’s College,
Castleknock, for the use of Irish Catholic Schools.” This title-page
speaks for itself and to some purpose. An intelligent outsider can
only add that the Vincentian Father adapts this system to a great many
Trish songs which we trust this handbook will help to popularise. The
musical tastes of our people have not been sufficiently encouraged.
“ Give me the music of a good speech,” O'Connell used to say, grudg-
ing the time taken up with singing and band-playing. Yet a fine
song or a noble burst of music could stir souls as effectively as
excellent oratory ; and it remains true that those who could influence
such matters in Ireland have not yet attached eufficient importance to
the musical education of our people of all classes.

A French Jesuit, Father Frederick de Curley, has linked with the
name of the first Mother Superior of Blessed Margaret Mary Alavoque
devout study of the Devotion to the Sacred Heart of a minute and
novel character. His pious industry has gathered every particular
discoverable about Mary Frances de Saumaise and her family ; and
her intimate relations with the Virgin of Paray-le-Monial are set forth
in a manner which will henceforth associate her name as it deserves to
be associated with those of Blessed Margaret Mary and the Venerable
Claude de la Colombiere, 8.J.

Notes on New Books. 217

In the “Notes on New Books” in our January Number, we gave
some account of Father Delplace’s Histoire des Congregations de la
Sainte Vierge. We have received from the United States an excellent
translation of this work, under the title of “ History of the Sodality
of the Blessed Virgin Mary; a Memorial of the Tercentenary Jubilee,
1584-1884 (Boston: Thomas B. Noonan & Co.). It is well translated,
finely printed, and encased in the most tasteful binding that we have
ever seen on an American book. ‘Our Children of Mary” at home
ought to procure a copy for each of their libraries.

Father de Curley, S.J., in his preface to that “ Etude Nouvelle sur
les Revélations de Paray-le-Monial” which we introduced to our
readers a moment ago, remarks that the Devotion to the Heart of
Jesus appeared in all its vividness on the scaffolds of the Convention
and on the battlefields of La Vendée. This observation might have
been suggested by a beautiful and holy book in which Father Petre
Pouplard, $.J., tells the story of Victoria de Saint Luc, one of the
Réligieuses de la Retraite at Quimper in Brittany, who was guillotined
as such in 1794, ten days before the fall of Robespierre himself. The
charge that was pressed against her most violently was that she had,
even in her prison, made and distributed little pictures of the Sacred
Heart, to which devotion she had always been tenderly attached. A
branch of this Order, which has pursued its work for two centuries in
spite of revolutions, has recently found an English home at Summer-
field, Sevenoaks, Kent. This pious biography is made none the less
agreeable to read by being printed with fine type on fine paper.

Once in recommending earnestly the Association of the Holy
Childhood, we mentioned that Pope Jeo XLII. in his Encyclicals of
8rd December, 1880, and 19th March, 1881 (appropriate feasts, St.
Francis Xavier and St. Joseph), had joined it in his praises with the
Propagation of the Faith, so well known to a i. and with the work of
the Eastern Schools, about which wa knew nothing. One of our
readers who then shared our ignorance has lately had the charity to
share with us the information he procured from the Director of the
CEuvre des Ecoles d’ Orient, rue du Regard, 12, Paris, whence is issued
an interesting bulletin of the work. The object is to promote the
Christian education of children in Asia Minor and other eastern
countries, and also the formation of a native clergy. The needs of
such countries are often as great as those of heathen countries, and
there is more preparation for fruitful labour amongst them. But
whatever outlet we may choose for our zeal, we must strive to make
our zeal ewell and swell so as to require an outlet. We for whom the
precious and dear-bought heritage of the faith is part of our patriotism
must cherish the apostolic spirit which befits the children of St.
Patrick, St. Columkille, and St. Columbanus.

Three scientific pamphlets by Dr. George Sigerson of Dublin, may

218 Notes on New Books.

be mentioned in the order of their suitableness for the general reader
—for whom they are not intended. The first is “The Need and Use
of Village Hospitals in Ireland” (Dublin: Fannin & .Co.) reprinted
from the journal of the Statistical Society of Ireland: the second
bears what for us outsiders seems the strange title of “ Consideration
of the Structural and Aoquisitional Elements in Dextral Pre-eminonce
with conclusions as to the ambidexterity of Primeval Man ;” and the
third consists of “Contributions to the Study of Nerve-action in
connexion with the sense of Taste.” An awkward person is sometimes
accused of having two left hands. Just the reverse of this is the
“ambidexterity” claimed for primitive man in the second of these
learned brochures. The curious facts accumulated and cleverly dis-
cussed would have delighted that enthusiastic champion of the left
hand, the late Charles Reade. Dr. Sigerson’s style has none of the
heaviness that too often marks the treatment of scientific subjects.

It is the eve of St. Joseph's Day ; and this puts us in mind of The
Messenger of St. Joseph which in another month will have completed its
second year. It is therefore a convenient date for sending a postal
order for five shillings to the Rev. Prosper Goepfert, Rockwell College,
Cahir, Co. Tipperary, in return for which St. Joseph will send many
useful and pleasant messages every month for a year tocome. Sundry
improvements are promised for the third yearly issue of this pious
magazine, which from the first has been supplied with clever and
interesting papers. But even in the March Number the proof-reading
is defective. ‘

Elhs’s Irish Education Directory (Dublin: E. Ponsonby) is now in
its fourth year of issue. It is edited still by its originator, Mr. William
Edward Ellis, Barrister-at-law, formerly secretary to the Board of
Intermediate Education. Each new issue adds many improvements,
and it is now a work of the highest utility and interest, which can be
consulted with pleasure and advantage by the general reader, but must
be indispensable for those who in various ways are mixed up with
competitive examinations. An extraordinary amount of information
is condensed into this cleverly arranged volume; and we have the
testimony of the highest practical authorities to the accuracy of the
innumerable particulars that have been collected concerning the educa-
tional establishments of all kinds in Ireland, and many outside of
Treland. Some twenty pages at the beginning are filled with a minute
alphabetical index which will guide the reader to any portion of the
contents in which he may be specially interested. The educational
advertisements alone must be a great service to pupils and their parents
as well as to the managers of the various schools and colleges. The
editor shows great anxiety to be perfectly impartial. He is a Lenefac-
tor to the cause of public education in Ireland.

“A Full Course of Instruction on the Religious Programme for

Notes on New Books. 219

&chools in Down and Connor, by a Teacher” (Belfast : Allen & Son),
ompresses a vast amount of excellent matter into forty pages. We
have not examined it closely, but our eye has fallen on one or two
statements which seem to us questionable. The extremely difficult
nature of the subject makes the need of ecclesiastical supervision
greater than usual ; and we are therefore surprised at not finding an
Amprimatur prefixed.

From San Francisco all the way comes to us a very elegant little
quarto, ‘‘ The Cross of Monterey and other Poems, by Richard Edward
White.” No London firm could produce the volume more daintily,
and the gems are worthy of the casket. Mr. White has the thoughts
and diction of a poet, and he knows the technical details of the
poetic art. We prefer “The Masterpiece of Brother Felix,” to the
poem to which the foremost place is assigned. Mr. White’s sonnets
are very good. One of them, which Mr. White places last, perhaps
as being his best, we quoted in a “ Pigeonhole Paragraph” at page
109 of our ninth volume, having met it in the cleverly edited Boston
Pilot. Ex pede Herculem, and we rejoice that this beautiful volume
justifies the compliment we paid to the first fourteen lines we ever saw
from the pen of an unknown writer.

The two most important books of this month—we speak of course
of those which have presented themselves before our critical tribunal
—have come so late that we can at present do little more than name
them. They are both biographies of a very different character indeed.
‘Who has not heard of St. Thomas of Canterbury? And who has
heard of Father John Hand? “The Life and Martyrdom of St.
Thomas Becket” by the Rev. John Morris, S.J. (London: Burns &
Oates), is a masterly work. In its new form it is half as large again
as the first edition which has been out of print for twenty years.
Father Morris has very remarkable qualitications for such a work.
‘We remember the admiration expressed by the late Dr. Russell
of Maynooth for his “Letter Book of Sir Amyas Paulet” which he
pronounced to be a specimen of perfect editing. As the historian of
the martyred Archbishop of Canterbury, he has neglected none of the
recent additions to the sources of knowledge, and he has weighed and
arranged his materials with consummate judgment and skill.

We Irish Catholics are too fond of sneering at our French brethren
for writing lives of everybody. We carry the opposite policy too far.
It is surely very well that there should be some record of the devoted
priest who founded the Missionary College of All Hallows, Dublin.
Dr. M'Devitt, one of the present Professors, has discharged his loving
task with great diligence and the result is a portly octavo which will
be epecially welcome to the alumni of All Hallows now doing the work
of apostles all over the world. When a new edition of this edifying
biography is called for, we should counsel greater simplicity and con-
densation as befitting the record of so simple and so brief a career.

( 220 )

THE ORAZE OF FASHION-FOLLOWING.
BY FRANCES KERSHAW.

A STRANGE, inexplicable thing is Fashion—therefore we are not
going to attempt an explanation of it; but own that we would

join heartily in such an essay, could we but come at last to define it,

and in so doing, to explain a large and unworthy part of it away!

In the first place, to be logical, following implies leading. Query
—Who or what leads the Fashions? ‘French theatres and ballet-
dancers, with disreputable milliners in the matter of dress; extrava-
gant books in matters of taste, or an extravagant past; the upper ten
thousand in the matter of times; lively court-dames in the matter of
funerals ; mournful widows in the matter of marriages ; and, for alas!
here is Fashion even here !—the last pages of a lately admired memoir
in the matter of death-beds.

Why follows Fashion? Nobody knows. You live in the air, and
‘breathe it—unconsciously you live amid Fashion, and breathe it, like
air—unconsciously. Look for reasons in such a craze as Fashion, and
the thing would vanish instantly—not the crumble of an ash remain-
ing—a very ghost of ghosts!

Who follows Fashion? All that portion of the world which has an
objection to being left in the rear of society. Human nature is more
like a sailing vessel than a steamship. The force which moves us is
outside ourselves, in no wise proceeding from within. And Fashion is
the wind which fills the sails of human nature—a shifting, unaccount-
able breeze!

‘What does Fashion do for us? An old Scotch minister commenced
his sermon one day by stating that “we are not all aloike.” Fashion
contradicts him, and declares that she will make us so. She takes us
to task at once on our outsides—rubs, scrubs, and polishes us finely—
salving our pimples, and filing our corns; placing our corpuses in
sacks, and leaving us to learn how to walk in them. Fashion would
tone down all the colourful variety of this lovely life of ours to the
monotonous shades of a photograph. Fashion would drown all
individuality in a terrible, heartless uniformity. It would provide us
all with the same social spectacles, and expect us to suit onr eyes to
them. Fashion holds us in leading strings, and teaches us to walk
backwards. Coleridge says that “ the deepest and strongest feelings of
our nature combine with the obscure and shadowy, rather than with
the clear and palpable.” This argument, we, Fashion-following folk
of this nineteenth century, go far to demonstrate. By some odd freak
of Fashion, we have our heads turned over our shoulders. ( Instead of

The Crase of Faashion- Follmeing. 221

going ahead and looking ahead, as our forefathers did, we persistently
look behind us, and that as far as the low horizon will permit us, into
the dark ages or the dawning ones of civilisation We own that this
unusual position is not a comfortable one; it cramps us considerably
at times. But, oh dear! it’s the Fashion—we must grin and abide by
it; that ie, if Fashion euffers grinning! Fashion prescribes a great:
burst of applause periodically at the recent immense strides the world’s:
intellect has made: discoveries of science, feats of physical skill, &e. ;
and bids us meditate proudly upon how our dark ancestors would have
stared, and had reason to stare, if, suddenly confronted by our nine-
teenth century civilisation! But in the same breath Fashion prescribes
a careful gaze to be fixed on the very nods, winks, and arm-pillows of
our staring ancestors, and bids us find our models in them! We, of
this nineteenth century, are recommended to turn from our own present:
civilisation (with which, providentially, we must occasionally occupy
ourselves—or woe betide our noses on the stony way! woe betide our
peace of mind and body as we are jostled against by the forward-
going world at large, while we are in the Ancient Greece!) for a
poor mimicry of classic life—a state reminding us strongly of the
bottle which once contained Mr. Stiggins pine-apple wine, “ nothing
left but the cork and the smell”—so-called wstheticism! Alas, alas!
we are intense, we are utter. We aro intensely silly ; we are utterly mad !
Are we to return to the times when witches were conscientiously incar-
cerated, and pricked with pins to prove their demoniacal possession ?
Are we to contend for a revival of the “ hot stakes” and ‘‘ oold chops ”
our ancestors enjoyed for the sake of their faith and for the lack of it?
Are we to exchange the modern steamship for the ancient eight-
oared galley? Or our forks for our fingers, on the plea that they
were made first ?

‘We are weary to bear with such shackles of Fashion. We feel a
wondrous sense of relief and gratitude, when anyone will whistle out
of tune, or walk out of step, or do anything that the rest of the world
isn’t doing !

“Jf alll the world was apple-pie,
And all the sea was ink;
And all the trees were bread and cheese;
‘What should we have to drink ?”

says an old nursery rhyme; and we feel like getting very much to the
state of things at last. Fashion is tending considerably to this point.

Under Fashion’s influence we are losing our hearts, and senti-
mentalism by rule can hardly fill their place—at least while we have so
much humanity left in our nature! Still we are machinising as fast as
we can, just as all the world about us is machinised now-a-days, so
perhaps even that time may come at last! When we hear Bottom’s
prologue for Snug quoted now: “I am a man as other men are; by

222 The Crase of Fashion-Following.

the Fashion-follower, we do begin to feel somewhat doubtful as to his
verity. We spy a sort of wheel, and spring, and steam, in his com-
position, which used not to form a part of the human frame—an
absence of flesh and bloodism!

‘The fact is that we are in great need just now of a skinning down
40 essentials—bones and sinews; then of producing our flesh and blood
by a natural process. We need more reality and less sham in our lives.
‘We need to be more real to ourselves. We are Berkeleyians in practice,
who need the Scotch minister’s knocking of the head against a bedpost,
to drive common-sense into us, and a good deal of Fashion out of us.
‘We need more of what our Teutonic brethren call “selbst verstindig-
keit;"” we are so apt to sink individuality in numbers, to ‘herd
sogether,” to work in “gangs.” There is an old nursery “ spriich-
wort” which, with slight transposition illustrates this state of things.
“A society for everything, and everything in a society.” We have
societies of all sorts : friendly, debating, benevolent, dress, educational,
And the worst of the practical working of these societies is, that they
almost invariably fail to reach the exceptional cases which might
receive some benefit from them. One finger will often perform the
work a whole hand may not And who shall say that the world wags
on a whit the more cleverly for them ?

Somebody says that ‘ we are in a forced, cramped, fettered, unnatu-
ral state.” So we are. Even a moral crinoline would induce some
expansion and relaxation of our lives as they are now—tied and bound
by the chains of fashion.

Btill, like most bad things, fashion is not without its good points.
‘Norman Macleod said, “ There are some men who, if left alone, are as
cold as pokers ; but like pokers, if thrust into the fire, they become red
hot, and add to the general blaze.” To such as these the following of
fashion (at a respectful distance) gives stamina and power. To the
weak-minded, headless, will-o’-the-wisps, it is a much-needed safe-
guard and support. With those devoid of taste, it in some sort
supplies the want. Fashion is the nurse of our childhood and old age,
and a useful guide occasionally in our mature years. Its use is in
binding society together, working evenly wheel within wheel; itself a
common standpoint and standard of habit. Like many things, it is
good in its place. It is when distorted, abused, and worshipped,
followed blindly for the mere sake of something tu follow—thut it
becomes a craze—an immense social nuisance, as totally evil as its
opposite craze of eccentricity.

MARCELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

avrmon or mmrray's mrerony,” ©THE WICKED wOOD8 OY TOBEERETHL:” “mprnaowan,”
“THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETO.

CHAPTER XII.
DISTRESNA.

He who has never ridden on an Irish jaunting-car, a tidy little
car with good springs and cushions, drawn by a fast trotting horse,
has not travelled so along Irish hilly roads or through Irish green
‘boreens—has missed one of the pleasantest sensations in life. No
other vehicle mounts the rugged hill so boldly and easily, and rattles
down again ao joyously into the hollow of the capricious highway
or by-way. . No other vehicle affords such easy opportunity for
friendly chat between two travellers who sit well back on either
seat of the car, leaning towards one another with each an elbow on

the “well” cushion. But it is almost as difficult to those not to
the manner born to sit a jaunting car as to sit a horse. A certain
almost unconscious grasp with the knee and poise of one foot is
necessary to give the rider that birdlike sensation of skimming
through the air at will which is so utterly unknown to people who
drive in carriages.

Father Daly, Bryan, and Marcella, all being to the manner born,
pursued their way through the hills as lightly as the breeze blew,
till, at a turn of a road, a poor woman suddenly appeared and
courtesying in the middle of the path, requested Father Daly to
come with her on a sick call.

“Well, and who is ill now P”

“Och, yer riverence, it’s the ould man himeel’.”

“Are you sure he hasn't got the toothache like the last time I
went, and found him bravely ? ”

“Oh, sorra fear, yer riverence, but he's bad this time. It's con-
-vulted altogether he is, an’ not expected since six this mornin’.”

“ Over-eat himself, I suppose,” said Father Daly, in a tone
that gave a pathetic meaning to the seemingly heartless words.

“That's about it, Father Daly,” said the woman, under-
standing.

‘Vou. xnu., No 148. May, 1686, 18

224 Marcella Grace.

“I believe he's ready for the road, so. Poor Barney was always
a good warrant to love God Almighty,” said the priest, solemnly,
using the idiom of the people the better to make himselt under-
stood. ,
“Thrue for you, Father Daly, but ye see the terrible state of
the politics has druv his prayers a bit out of his mind, an’ he’s off
his religion this while back. An’ though I don’t mane rightly to
say he doesn’t love God, still he doesn’t pay high encomiums to
him the way he used to do, yer riverence, an’ he doesn’t insinuate
afther Him.”

“Well, well, I’ll go and talk to him a bit, and we'll make that.
all right again,” said Father Daly.

“I'm going off here to a place up the mountain where the people
live chiefly on air, and sometimes it disagrees with them,” he
added, to Marcella. ‘Sometimes it disagrees with them,” he re-
peated, muttering to himself, as he slid gently down from the car,
being no longer of an age to jump off.

“Do you mean that itis a case of starvation P” asked Marcella,
eagerly. She knew enough of the pains of want to be quick at
guessing what was meant, .

“Something of that, something of that. What I would call
the slow hunger if I were a doctor and could invent a new disease ;,
not a new one either, but one that belongs to Ireland, as cholera
belongs to the East. There now, that will do,” as Marcella tooka
little basket from the well of the car and handed it promptly to
Pat. “And now, Bryan, my boy, take the reins yourself and
finish the drive, and you can call for me at the Windy Gap when
you're jogging homewards. If I’m there an hour too soon it does.
not matter. Sure I’ve my breviary in my pocket, and I couldn’t
read my office in the middle of finer scenery.”

And the priest and Pat having set off up a footpath slanting
along the face of the overhanging hill, Kilmartin and Marcella
continued their journey together.

In spite of his self-warning of the night before, Bryan felt
a keen delight in the chance that had given Marcella to his sole:
keeping for several hours. As they spun along thé level roads or
walked slowly up the steep hills, the thoughtful look on his face
relaxed, and his eyes shone. They two were alone in the brilliant
weather, among the blue mountains, breathing the freshest, most
exhilarating breezes of heaven, and he found the solitary com-
panionship surpassingly sweet. Nothing draws two spirita, if they
are already sympathetic, more closely together than to be placed

Marcella Grace. . 225

side by side in some impressive solitude of nature, where under
her spell all that is noblest and best in one heart rushes to meet
what corresponds with itin theother. Dropping his well-grounded
presentiments of coming misfortune behind him like a mantle that
impeded his course, Kilmartin went forward through the sunshine
with something of the feelings one wéuld give to a soul newly and
unexpectedly arrived in Paradise. As wild, subtle, and penetrating
as the odour of the mountain heather on the wind that filled his
nostrils was this new influence which overmastered his melancholy
humour with its potent delight. Yet so strong was his habit of
reserve and self-control that the only sign of the new joy awakened
within him lay in the swift changes in his eyes and on his mouth
as he flicked with his whip and looked up the enpurpled bluffs and
braes, and away into the infinite glories of sky and highland ahead,
thrillingly conscious of the nearness of the fair face half turned to
him from the other side of the car, yet only allowing himself an
occasional glance at it. At last on the top of a hill he stopped the
car, and said:

“Now, Miss O'Kelly, if you will stand up for a few minutes,
I will show you the lie of this side of Distresna with regard to
the lands near it—my own and Mr. O’Flaherty’s. I say my own,
for though almost all that we can descry from here has passed from
my hands into those of peasant proprietors, it is the most precious
of all my possessions—I look on it as the very apple of my eye.
I am watching with I cannot tell what eagerness to see how the
scheme will work.”

“Up to the present how has it worked ?” asked Marcella, who
stood on the footboard of the car, holding the rail with one hand,
and with the other shading her eyes from the strong sunlight as
she gazed down into the variegated valley in the direction indicated
by Bryan with his whip.

“Look through this,” he said, giving her a field-glass, “and
your own eyes will suggest the answer. To this side, where you
see white walls and new thatches, and here and there the absence
of offensive heaps by the door, and the beginning of general neat-
ness about, there are some of my small peasant proprietors. Over
yonder where you see smoke coming out of the hill-side through
an old broken basket—that is Distresna, and you will find many
of your tenants burrowing thus in the earth, like moles.”

“Why P”

“ Because, they will tell you, (that is, if they have courage to
speak) that the traditions of the country and all the experiences

226 Marcella Grace.

of those who within their own memory have made the trial, go to “
prove that anyone who makes a show of decency and neatness in
his dwelling has his rent raised without fail, before he has had
time to reap any benefit himself from his own improvements, and
only that he may be forced to clear out and make room fora richer
tenant.”

“But you had not—you would not have treated them so!”

“I am sorry to say that in my father's time it was done, and
they naturally expected me to act like others of my family and
class. I found them quite unbelieving and unmanageable on the

“old lines. On the new ones—well, already the best of them losk

on me as their friend.”

“ And yet, does it not seem a pity to let the old relations of
landlord and tenant quite die out?” said Marcella. ‘It seems to
me such a good relation if every one did his duty.”

“ With an ‘if’ what cannot man do? Take the universe to pieces
and rebuild it again,” said Kilmartin. ‘ Unfortunately men with
power too often think more of doing their will than their duty,
and in world-forgotten places like this every owner of a few hun-
dred acres has been accustomed to look upon himself as a sultan.
As for myself I thought the matter out and put it thus: many
men have probably had as generous thoughts in the beginning of
their career as those that come to me. How do I know that later
in life I shall not have become so attached to some form of selfish-
ness or other that will show me things in a different light from
that in which I see them now? I will put it out of my own
power to be a persecutor of my fellow-men, even with the most
plausible reasoning on my side. I confess that a hereditary liking
for the position of landlord has stood in my way, and, even now,
if I can possibly save the mastership of the remnant of my pro-
perty, I feel that I will do it. But not unless I can by this means
effect as much improvement as by the other. I will have no slaves
living under my rule.”

Marcella did not reply. In her heart she leaned to the side of
landlordism. It seemed to her that it ought to be so easy for the
rich and powerful to take care of the ignorant and poor. She,
herself, in her consciousness of a state of general ignorance which
she innocently thought must be very peculiar for one in her posi-
tion as a lady, felt ever inclined to turn to those above her in
education and rearing for example and guidance. She was aware
toc that her exceptional experience of the tribulations of the poor
ought to give her (when educated, as she now hoped to be), a par-

Harcella Grace. 227

ticular advantage in the efforts she might make to raise the con-
<dition of those over whom she had been so strangely and wonder-
fally placed. She felt a strong desire to try her own powers of
working good before throwing the reins out of her hands that had
-as yet hardly grasped them.

“You do not advise me to follow your example, to turn my
tenants at once into peasant proprietors?”

“I advise you to do nothing till you shall see further for your-
aelf. For one thing, many of your people are incapable of becoming
proprietors until the present state of the law of purchase is amended,
You would have to lend money, a certain proportion of the money
(to buy your own land), to your purchasing tenant, and afterwards
take a mortgage on your own land (yours no longer) as your only
security for repayment. In almost all cases this is what I have
done, and at the present moment I find it anything but an enrich-
ing procedure. In reserving a part of my property, stopping my
sales, I act under necessity, as I have no more money to venture,
and so feel no scruple at persisting in the róle of landlord, to a
certain extent. For the rest we shall see. Now, Miss O'Kelly, at
which of these underground edifices do you wish to pay a visit P”

By this time they were wending up a by-road, so rutty and
uneven that they had had to alight, and walk, one on either
side of the horse’s head, while the car jolted over stones and into
hollows.

“I want to see a Mrs. Conneely who lives about here. I talked
to her on the road the other day and promised to come to see her.
Ah, there is the young man who was with her. This must be
the place.”

A shock head was protruded from the hole under the hill, and
a voice said :

“Sure it’s the young lady hersel’ that’s come to us. Me sow]!
ut I knowed she wasn’t wan o’ the forgettin’ sort!”

At the same time the wail of an infant in pain was heard from
the underground cabin.

“Is the baby not better P ” asked Marcella of the owner of the
shock head, who, having withdrawn it for a few moments, put it
forth again.

“ Musha, it's in heaven any betterment ‘Il be that is for it,” said
the lad, pulling his wild forelock as he stepped out of the hole and
invited the lady in. ‘Only don’t for yer life tell that to the
another o’t, Miss.”

Marcella could at first see nothing in the cabin, for the smoke

228 Harcella Grace.

which the basket in the chimney-hole failed to carry successfully
aloft, but presently she desoried a woman on her knees before a
kind of cradle made of a cleeve (turf-creel), set upon two long dry
sods of turf, and heard the reiterated word, half a caress, and half
a moan of agony:

“é Acushla machree! Acushla machree! Acushla machree
machree !”

Marcella waited for a few moments and then put her hand on
the woman’s shoulder. There is as much difference of expression
between one light touch and another, as between gentle tones of
voice. The meaning conveyed by the tips of five fingers may be
cruel or tender, callous and cold, or exquisitely sympathetic.
Marcella’s touch found, without jarring, the chord most susceptible
of sympathy in the mother’s suffering heart.

“What is the matter with hin P What can we do for him?”
she whispered, kneeling beside the poor woman, and stealing an
arm round her.

“ Och, it’s only the hunger, Miss—he can’t ate the yellow male,
an’ I’ve nothing else for him. We haven't had a tint o’ milk
these three days.”

The next minute Marcella was warming some milk that she
had brought in the car, and was presenting it to the mother, who,
after making an effort to speak, had fallen forward again on the
cradle, embracing the little white set form it held with both her
lean brown arms.

“I think it is only exhaustion, and this may not be too late,”
she said. “Let me try,” and gently putting the dazed creature
aside, Marcella lifted the child in her arms, and, sitting down on a
broken stool, began to moisten the infant’s lips with the natural
nourishment. The pale lips moved and received the fluid, and
after a time the eyes opened and seemed to look for more. Ina
quarter of an hour the child was unmistakably better. Marcella
remained yet another half hour nursing, feeding, caressing it,
while the mother knelt speechless watching her, no more daring to
interfere than if it was the Holy Mother herself who had come
down out of heaven and taken her child’s case out of her hands.
The tall lad with the shock head stood by, his great hollow eyes.
fixed on Marcella, a look of eager appreciation of the scene on his
pallid face. Finally, when the child seemed to fall into a natural
sleep, Marcella restored him to his mother’s arms.
~The poor woman pressed the babe convulsively to her breast, as-
she took the seat from which her visitor rose, and, not attempting-

Harcella Grace. 229

to speak her thanks, merely lifted the hem of Marcella’s dress and
put it to her lips.

“I will leave you this bottle of milk, and to-morrow I shall
send more. Mike will come for it, perhaps,” said Marcella, looking
in the youth's face as if making a personal request.

Mike’s ready, “I will, Miss,” nearly choked him. He brushed
his hand across his eyes, and escorted the lady from the cabin, and
then glanced at her with a kind of reverential rapture as she stood
on the grass, looking up and down for Kilmartin, who, having
witnessed something of the foregoing scene in the cabin, was now
making a meditation upon it at a distance, as he fed Father Daly’s
little fast trotting horse.

The pig, who had been another witness of the scene within the
cabin, now also came forth to see the lady off.

“Why do you not sell that rather than be hungry?” asked
Marcella of Mike, as the animal stood grunting at her, whether in
reproach or thanksgiving, who can tell ?

“Is it the pig, MissP Sure that’s the rint. He's all we have
betune oursel’s an’ the cowld mountain side. Whin he goes sure
we'll all have to folly him, barrin’ he goes into the lan’lord’s
pooket.”

Marcella smiled broadly at the notion of Mike and the pig in
her pocket.

“Tam going to buy him from you,” she said, “and you can
keep him for me till the landlord wants him. I will give you the
price of him to-morrow when you come. Best market price.
Honour bright. And by the way, who is your landlord?”

Mike was so struck dumb not only at this announcement of her
intended purchase, but by her peculiar idea of her rights as a pur-
chaser, that he made no answer, only turned crimson up to the
roots of his hair.

“Who is the landlord, Mike?” But Mike could not even hear
the question, so wildly was the pig still running through his head.

“It's too much, Miss,” he blurted out at last. ‘Sure you
don’t know how much that baste is worth. The half year’s rent’s
inside of him.”

“Seven pounds, Mike.”

“Oh musha, Miss, not so much as that.” And then, utterly
abashed by such magnificent generosity, he hung his head, while
his thoughts whirled riotously in the expectation of coming affluence
to the family.

«But you have not told me yet, Mike, who is the landlord.”

230 Harcella Grace,

“Sure she’s dead, Miss, an’ the agent’s turned off, and sorra
wan owns us this minute, for the new landlord’s a lady too, an’ we
haven't seen her or heard tell of her, an’ maybe niver will. But
the new agent ‘ll be down on us for the next gale of rint. An’ av
coorse he'll be harder than the last one.”

“Why should he be harder? And how do you know there
will be an agent ?””

“Ladies always has agents,” said Mike, “and the next agent
is always worse than the one before. That's all we know about it
yet, Miss.”

“Well, Mike, we'll march our pig to meet him when he comes,
and we needn’t be afraid of him for awhile, anyway,” said Marcella,
laughing. “ But how have you managed up to this P”

“Ye see, Miss, me brother-in-law, that’s her husband ” (jerking
his thumb towards the cabin), “is away in England workin’ at
the harvest, an’ he'll bring a bit o’ money home wit him. Meself
would ha’ been wit him only for the faver I’ve just riz out of,
Miss. I’m the last of a long family meself, an’ only for bein’
sickly I'd be in America like the rest o' them that sends a pound
now and again to help to stop the gap. Sure only that the
weather does go dead again us we'd always have potatoes and
turf, and could go abroad to airn the rint. But whin the rain rots
the potatoes, and there's no dryin’ for the turf, an’ the yalla male's
that dear—och we'd need to be angels wit wings, and no atin’ at
all, to get on wit, it.”

“Now what do you think, MikeP Would you not be better
off if you were away entirely, all of you! To a country where
it’s easier to get something to eat P”

* “Faix, Miss, an’ maybe we would. Only I’m thinkin’ the
ould hills would be lonesome witout some of us. An’ there's a
power o’ us gone already ye see, Miss. There's a power o' us gone
already.”

Mike did not know what a weighty truth he had uttered. Surely
enough the accumulated masses of exiled Irish are proving them-
selves a terrible power.

The desire to hear the praises of Kilmartiu here constrained
Marcella to ask a reason for the superior appearance of some of
the houses down yonder in the valley.

“Sure that’s Mr. Bryan’s land, Miss, an’ isn't he makin’ their
own awners of the whole o’ them! It's what they call pisant
propriety, Miss; maybe ye have heard of it?”

“He has been good to the people. Do they like him for it?”

Harcella Grace, 281

Mike lowered his voice. ‘Sure Miss, they love the ground he
walks—barrin’ them”—he broke off and looked around him
cautiously. ‘“ Them that we needn’t be mintionin’. There's some
that has an ould crow to pluck wit him, an’ I'm feared they're on
for pluckin’ it.”

The change in Mike’s face was even more remarkable as he
spoke his last words than were the words themselves, and as Mar-
cella noted thie, her own eyes took such a scared expression, that
Mike said suddenly, as if a light had dawned on him:

‘Maybe he is somethin’ to ye, Miss. I mane, maybe he has you
bespoke.”

Though the words were audacious, the anxious delicacy of
Mike’s manner of saying them forbade all offence. Marcella
coloured, but said frankly.

“ Mr. Kilmartin is a friend of mine, but that is all. Nobody
has me ‘ bespoke.’ ”

Mike's countenance brightened. What was it to him, poor
lad, what gentleman might have a claim upon the beautiful lady
who was as far removed above himself as the stars are above the
little bog pools that occasionally reflect them P Yet somehow it
pleased poor gaunt, shock-headed, ragged Mike, that this creature
of his sudden worship belonged as yet to no man, had, as he might
imagine if he liked, no fixed place among the “ginthry,” and
could wander at her own sweet will among the mountains, as likely
to have come down out of the clouds as to have come up out of the
lowlands.

Nevertheless, with the quickness of perception of his race and
class, he had read in Marcella’s eyes that Kilmartin’s safety was
dear to her; and he said, as Bryan himself was seen leading the
horse and car to meet them :

‘Tell him to take care o’ himsel’, Miss, for there's thim that’s
set to hurt him. Ax him to take a trip to see Amerikay.”

There was no time to question him as to the meaning of his
ominous words. The next minute Marcella was looking back
from her seat on the car, at the wild figure of Mike, as he stood
gazing with reverential eyes in the direction towards which her
face was set, long after he could see it no more.

With a cold shudder she felt that in return for her exertions a
thorn had been planted in her heart, and one which it would be
hard to eradicate. She felt indignant at Mike for suggesting
what could hardly be true. Had not Kilmartin’s fault in the eyes
of his friends been only too great a sympathy with the disaffected

232 Marcella Grace.

people, and had not it been made clear to her that any danger
threatening him (and, thank God, it was blown over), had loomed
from a quarter directly opposite to that now so strangely indicated P
How could she convey such a message to Kilmartin's earP And
yet she must not dare to sleep without communicating it to him.
As they moved on, Bryan noticed her changed and dejected looks,
and said:

“You must not take the sufferings of these poor people too
much to heart. Happily, you have the power to alleviate it.”

In saying this he was thinking of a power distinct from that
which mere money had placed in her hands. But Marcella’s
thoughts did not follow his words, being quite filled with the idea
of his danger, and, thinking her tired, he remarked that it was
now too late to pay further visits.

“You gave so much time to that baby,” he said, “that if we
do not now get on quickly Father Daly will be reading his office
in the Windy Gap till it grows too dark to see, even with
spectacles.”

«But we can easily get home before dark,” said Marcella,
anxiously, and Kilmartin, wondering at the sudden change in
her spirits urged the horse to a faster trot. As they spun along
the road in silence the girl’s mind was distracted with doubts and
questions. Ought she not to put him on his guard at once, and
yet why should she spoil the drive which he was so evidently
enjoying, and bring back the cloud of care to his eyes which were
shining on her now with a happy tenderness? She hated to be
the messenger of evil to him; and, after all, did she not utterly
disbelieve in the vague warning which she had got to give him P
Of course it must be given. She would not take the risk of with-
holding it. But there was no need to think of it now, not till
these beautiful moments of travel and companionship should be
displaced by the inevitable future, and pushed back to the greedy
past gaping for them.

Kilmartin, having felt the mountain-air grow keener as they
ascended the pass leading to the road by which they were to return
towards Inisheen, wrapped her in a woollen shawl, and then set
himself to beguile her fatigue with stories of the country through
which they were passing.

“Over yonder, Mies O'Kelly, is the old home of the Kilmar-
tins, the house in which I was born. Does not it present a wild
spectacle, a striking instance of the thrift of Irish landlords, for
you see when that roof-tree began to decay rents were’ paid, and

Marcella Grace. 233

those who received them ought to have been able to keep the wolf
from the door. In that old honse what dreams I have dreamed.
As a lad, I felt that there was something terribly wrong in the
existing state of things, and I wanted to redeem Ireland. My
mother, as you have discovered, has warm national blood in her
veins. Some of her family fled to France long ago and joined the
Irish brigades there. Almost all of her people are exiles through
political causes in the past, and she, God bless her, fed me on Irish
history and poetry, while my father, good easy man, thought of
little besides his hunt and his hunt-dinner, and his flowing punch-
bowl. The consequence was that I even went beyond my mother
in ardour for the Irish cause, and at seventeen, rushed into the
-arms of the Fenians.”

Marcella, uttered a little cry of dismay.

Kilmartin smiled. “ You needn't be frightened,” he said, “I
am not a Fenian now. My mother discovered the matter and
-appealed to my father, and I was sent to Cambridge, and afterwards
to travel. In the course of a few years I had learned to think ;
and, though my enthusiasm for Ireland was no way cooled, I saw
the folly and wickedness of dreams of war which had not the
remotest chance of success. Since then I have turned my atten-
tion to the consideration of more rational ways of benefiting my
country than those proposed by Fenianism, which, though it began
with a bold scheme for war, has, I am sorry to say, degenerated so
far as to identify itself with societies for assassination. I shook
myself free of it with some trouble and at some risk, but over
yonder, Miss O'Kelly, in that romantic little green hollow between
two purple hills, is the spot where we used to drill. Convert as I
am to sane and peaceful aims, grown old in wisdom and experience,
I can yet feel the thrill of an exquisite sense of daring and
-danger, the strong rapture in the vivid hope of one day marching
to battle for Faith and Fatherland to win a triumph which was
to be followed by the blossoming of the wilderness and food in
plenty for the famishing. All the heroic patriots of antiquity
were my models, and I may well regret the passing of the youth-
ful fervour of spirit that brought me yonder in the silence of a
moonlight night, my gun on my shoulder, my heart beating like
-a martial drum, and my mind fixed on the determination to risk
individual destruction for the sake of the future of my race.”

Marcella was silent. From all this revelation she had gained
a few ideas. In the first place, he had really been a Fenian, and
in the second place, by renouncing Fenianism, he had incurred the

284 Marcella Grace.

enmity of that formidable body. From which side now did his
danger proceed, a danger of which he himself was perhaps this.
moment in ignorance? Was it as a former Fenian, an offender
against the law, or as a seceder from the secret society that he had
become a mark for vengeance at unknown hands? His escape
from the police on that memorable night seemed to point to the
one, and the warning given by Mike implied the other. If a
mingling of the two might be imagined ——

Here a sharp turn of the road brought them into the Windy
Gap, and Father Daly climbed upon the car. Then Marcella
made an effort to rally her spirit, and related the experiences of
the drive to his reverence.

Father Daly rubbed his hands in delight. “Capital!” he
cried, “capital! What will become of the poor creatures with
joy when they find whom they have got for their landlord P”

The priest returned with them to Inisheen for the night, and:
after dinner, at his urgent cry for a little music, Mrs. Kilmartin’s
harp was carried to the side of her couch, and she sang for the
little company.

“Only Bryan and Father Daly would listen to an old woman’s
song,” she said to Marcella; “ they have so long been accustomed
to hear. me, that they will not allow either the voice or the harp-
strings to be cracked. As for you, my dear, you will have to try
to be patient.”

“Give us the Wild Geese,” said Father Daly. “ Miss O'Kelly,
the song which Mrs. Kilmartin sings for me every time I come here,
was translated from the Irish, long ago, by an anceatreas of hers,
whose lover had to fly the country, and whom she never saw

in.”

The little white-haired lady sitting up on her sofa, touched her
instrument as if with fairy fingers, and a wild flowing melody that
sounded to Marcella’s ears like fitful weeping trickled over the
harp strings.

T had no sail to cross the sea,
A brave white bird went forth from me,
My heart was hid beneath his wing:
Ostrong white bird, come back in spring!

I watched the wild geese rise and cry
‘Acroes the flaring western sky,

Their winnowing pinions clove the light,
‘Then vanished, and came down the night.

Harcella Grace. 235

I laid me low, my day was done,
I longed not for the morrow’s sun,

But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,
Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.

The moon through veils of gloomy red,
A worm yet dusky radiance shed,

‘All down our valley’s golden stream,
‘And flushed my slumber with a dream,

Her mystic torch lit up my brain,
My spirit rose and lived amain,

‘And followed through the windy spray
That bird upon its watery way.

O wild white bird, O wait for me,
My soul hath wings to fly with thee,
On foam waves lengthening out afar,
Well ride toward the western star.

O'er glimmering plains through forest gloom,
To track a wanderer’s feat I come,

"Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,

Dil pass unfrighted for his sake.

Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,

The stars his roof, the tent his home,
‘Saw'st thou what way the wild geese flew
To sunward through the thick night dew?

Carry my soul where he abides,
And pierce the mystery that hides
His presence, and through time and space
Look with mine eyes upon kia face.

Beside his prairie fire he rests,
‘All feathered things are in their nests:
“ Whut strange wild bird is this, he saith,
Still fragrant with the ocean's breath?

é Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,
And let me stroke thy shy wet wing :
What message in thy soft eye thrills?
I see again my native kilts,
“ And vale, the river's silver streak,
The mist upon the blue, blue peak,
The shadows grey, the golden sheave,
The mosey walls, the russet eaves.
“You. x11, No. 143. 19

236 Marcella Grace.

& 1 greet the friends I've loved and lost,
Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,
That braved for me the ocean's foam,
Some heart remembers me at home.

“ Ere spring's return I will be there,

Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger !”

I wake and weep ; the moon shines sweet,
O dream too short! O bird too fleet!

“It is too long for a song,” said Mrs. Kilmartin, having finished.
“No one but Father Daly would willingly listen to more than
three stranzas. The length of ‘Silent, O Moyle,’ is the length for
a perfect song.” And she sang Moore’s exquisite melody.

“Delicious!” murmured Father Daly, with a long sigh of
enjoyment. “Now, Bryan, where is your fiddle?”

An instrument was produced and handed first to the old man,
who played an Irish planxty of Carolan’s, mad with fun and frolic.
Afterwards the fiddle was passed to Bryan, in whose hands it
became the violin—

« That small sweet thing,
Devieed in love and fashioned cunningly
Of wood and strings.”

Bryan touched it with the skill of an artist and in a little theme
of Beethoven, made it give forth the soul of the musician. Mar-
cella, whose nerves were already overstrung, was almost wrought
to tears by the divine tenderness of his music. Over and above
Beethoven the cry of the Wild Geese was in her heart. “Tell
him to go a trip to see Amerikay,” said Mike. Was he too
destined to be a wanderer far from the land he loved so well, or be
sacrificed to some cruel alternative? She could not dare to sleep
without delivering her warning, and wrote a few words in pencil
on a page in her pocket-book, while Mrs. Kilmartin and the priest
were talking, and Bryan was still playing.

As they separated for the night she put it into his hand un-
observed, and greatly astonished he held it folded in his palm until
he found himself alone. .

Having read the few urgent words in Marcella’s large rather
unformed handwriting, he looked at first more glad than alarmed,
then asked himself was it fancy or conceit that led him to discern
an accent of piteous fear for his safety in the imaginary voice in
which the written message was delivered. Would she greatly care
if he were hurt? If so, it were almost good to be hurt.

Marcella Grace. 237

He remembered her sudden fit of dejection after quitting
Mike, and the suggestion that anxiety for him had caused it, came
to him with so much sweetness that it was some time before he
could cease to dwell on it and give his attention to the warning
itself.

Then, “I am not surprised,” he reflected, “but I stand my
ground. The danger does not blow from the quarter Mike appre-
hends. It may be that it were better if it did. But at all events
I stand my ground.”

Then studying again the simple words on the scrap of paper
in his hand, he forgot the cause of his getting them in the joy of
their possession. :

CHAPTER XIII.
MARCELLA, A LANDLORD.

For some time after this Marcella’s hands were full of business.
What with taking measures to make Crane’s Castle habitable, and
continuing her visits to her tenantry in company with Father
Daly, or Kilmartin, or both, she had little idle time. With a few
bold assured words Bryan had almost set her mind at rest on the
subject of danger to him, so that she was able to give at least a
good part of her thoughts to putting her affairs in order, and
laying a foundation for a future happy understanding between
her people and herself.

Gradually the poor dwellers on the green spots between the
bogs and the barren stretches of mountain came to look for the
visits of the smiling lady who was “that kind, you wouldn't,
think she was a lady at all,” and the pinched weather-beaten faces
would brighten at her approach, and the little brown bare-legged
children in their scanty garments of crimson home-spun flannel
would come capering like wild goats along the rocks to meet her.
By degrees all the cases of hardship, the evictions, and rent-raisings
were laid before her. Sitting at the cabin fires while the old
granny in the corner smoked the tobacco the lady had brought,
and Marcella, herself, helped to drink the tea which had been trans-
ferred from her own pocket to the little brown tea-pot on the
hearth, she became acquainted with all the ills to which these

238 Marcella Grace.

suffering creatures had been subjected, that her rent-roll might
show an increase rather than a falling off in wealth. Since Mrs.
O'Kelly, five years ago, had shaken the dust of Distresna off her
feet (offended at some complaints that had been made of what she
sincerely considered her most benignant rule), and departed from
Crane’s Castle never to return, the agent had been gradually
screwing up the rents, trying to extract a little more and a little
more money out of bog and rock; and at the same time the
seasons had been wet and cruel, turf had not been dried, and
potatoes had failed, and a good part of the hard-earned rent,
earned in America, England, anywhere, had been spent on the
insufficient yellow-meal on which the defaulters all but starved.
There had been several evictions within the year before Mrs.
O'Kellg's death. In some cases the ruined families had disappeared
from the country, in others they lived among their neighbours,
while a son or daughter had gone as a sort of advanced guard to
America to try to earn some money which might get them rein-
stated in their holdings. A fow dwellings better than ordinary,
showing signs of improvement at the cost of much labour, were
pointed to as warnings to the wise man not to improve. Out of
these the rash and adventurous improvers had been cast to repent
of their folly, the young in exile, the old in the poorhouse.

As Marcella listened and observed, her heart was stirred, and
she remembered that she also was a child of the people. If through
her mother she was descended from the gentry who had so mis-
managed and misruled these poor, through her father she was one
with them. The power to alleviate their wants and their miseries
had been wonderfully placed in her hands; the will should not be
wanting. With unfailing patience she studied their various cases,
learned their views, perceived and appreciated their temptations.

With the landlord on the one side, irritating and crushing
them, and on the other, the secret societies pressing them to put
themselves in the hands of a power that declared itself able and
willing to right them, was it surprising if the more desperate
among them fell blindly into complicity with crime? The only
wonder was that the bulk of them kept free from it. Can one be
astonished that the Fenian’s promise of a warfare that should bring
glorious changes over the face of the country, should have enthralled
the more sturdy and fearless of the youth, taught them to shoulder
a gun, and enticed them to the secret meeting-place in the heart of
the moonlit glen? On these things Marcella mused and pondered.
If Bryan, as a lad, had been inspired to rush out from his mother’s

Marcella Grace. 239

side in his comfortable home, to strive to right the wronged, how
much more those whose aged parents or little children were wasting
before their eyes in the very grip of the wrong P

‘Well, she would have no more Fenians, no more slaves, no more
starvation, no more eviction. Her rent-roll should be to her but
as a calendar of good deeds done. In one spot of Ireland at least,
Prosperity as great as the poverty of the land would permit,
should reign. To Crane’s Castle should come all who needed help
or comfort. With their bebies in her arms, their children about
her knees, she would know how to talk to the mothers and fathers.

In the meantime the people were full of anxiety about their
new landlord, and Marcella was often questioned as to whether she
had heard anything about that person, or, more important still,
anything of the appointment of an agent. They had learned that
Crane’s Castle was getting cleaned up and put to rights, and this
looked as though the agent, if not the lady herself, intended to
live on the property.

In all probability, they thought, the rents would be raised, as
a first step, by the new management. How many of those who
now clung with passion to their hearths and homes, poor and
humble as they might be, would, in a few weeks hence have
received the order to go forth, un order which to many wasa
veritable death sentence. Marcella could tell them nothing, only
begged them to hope. To ask them to be patient was unnecessary.
Nowhere in the world is such Christian patience to be met with
as in an Irish cabin.

In the meantime Crane’s Castle was getting thoroughly swept
and garnished. The cobwebs of years were blown away, the
mouldy old furniture was polished up, pretty new things arrived
from Dublin to make the place more comfortable and habitable than
it had ever been before, and at last it was ready for Marcella to
take possession. A lady of good family, one of the many Irish
ladiea whose slender income, being derived from a mortgage on
land, has vanished of late years, had accepted the position of
companion to the heiress of Distresna, and was ready at any
moment to obey a summons to the spot. All things were in
proper trim when Marcella unfolded her little plan for the con-
clusion of the play she had been enacting for the benefit of her
people.

On a bright Sunday morning in July, it was announced by
Father Daly, from the altar in his chapel at Ballydownvalley, that
the new landlord, who, as they knew, was a lady, a relative of the

240 Marcella Grace.

late Mrs. O'Kelly, would meet her tenants at Crane’s Castle on a
certain day in the following week, and would receive their rents
in person and hear their complaints, if they had any to make.
Now the people upon whom this news fell like a shock, had never
known Marcella by any other name than Mies Marcella, and had
not the faintest suspicion that she was a personage of importance.
A moaning murmur from the women at their prayers greeted the
announcement, groups stood late in the chapel yard that day dis-
cussing the expected event, and old and young returned to their
cabins in the afternoon with aload on their hearts. They had nota
doubt among them that the new state of things would be worse
than the old, and even Father Daly’s silence as to the lady's
character and intentions had an ominous meaning for them. If
he had been able to say a good word for the new landlord he would
surely have done so. All his sermon was about patience and con-
fidence in God, just such a sermon as he had always preached to
them when the turf would not dry, and the potatoes failed, or
when anybody died of the slow hunger, or was evicted. -

On the appointed day they were all in motion on the road to
Crane’s Castle, that is all the heads of families, or the member of
a family who was to act as spokesman for the rest. Crane’s Castle
stood about a mile from the lake of Inisheen with its face to sea-
ward and a mountain at its back, a quaint ancient building with
thick grey walls and small deep-set windows, and a general look
about it as if the crows had been building in its chimneys ever
since they came out of the Ark. Indoors a mighty change was
already noticeable, a few richly coloured rugs on the tiles of the great
square vault-like hall and a fire burning on the hearth to consume
the damps within and without, gave promise of a cheerful interior.
Faded and mildewed carpets and curtains had gone out with the
dust accumulated upon them, and the once mouldy and gloomy
reception-rooms had been so draped, and painted, and garnished,
as to have become places to linger in for comfort and repose. In
the drawingroom sat Marcella’s chaperon, a majestic and hand-
some woman who plied her embroidery needle with the air of a
fallen empress, and never failed to remind all comers that she was
“one of the O’Donovans.” The last of a dynasty whose subjects
had revolted and dethroned her could not have alluded to her misfor-
tunes with more dignified bitterness than did Miss O’Donovan when
speaking of the failure of her annuity which had been drawn from
a charge upon land. As her case was indeed a hard one (and there
are many of such) she was treated with the utmost tenderness by

Harcella Grace. 241

her friends, and Marcella in nominally accepting her services, was
prepared (to accord her all that unhesitating homage to which her
pride and her poverty laid urgent and constant claim.

Of the library, where until now The Peerage, Burke's Landed
Gentry, and innumerable bound volumes of the sporting papers
had been the chief ornaments of the shelves, Marcella had chosen
to make her own particular sanctum, and here she awaited her
tenants on that day in July. All the earliest arrived were invited
to take seats in the hall while the first man was called by name to
the presence of the landlord.

They knew that library door too well, having never entered it
without fear in their hearts. The first who went in now was
quickly aware of a change in the place. There were, as of old,
the two high-set narrow windows at the end of the room, but in
their recesses and catching the sunshine, stood deep-coloured jars
fall of tall yellow flag-lilies, filling the niches with brilliance and
light. In the shadow between the russet-tinted curtains, a lady
was sitting. Her head was bent down, and the heavy-hearted
tenant could not see her face. The room was full of flowers, the
furniture was the same and yet changed, the poor man gazed
round the place with a vague wonder in his mind as to whether
the new landlord was as different from the old as this beautiful
apartment was the reverse of its former gloomy self. Then he
looked again and saw Marcella smiling at him from the shadows
between the golden lilies in the windows.

“You see it is me whom you have got for your landlord, and
you must make the best of me. Now state your case that we may
get to business,” she said ; and Father Daly here appeared rubbing
his hands and laughing with delight.

“John Lynch,” he said, “confess that you are sold. Go
and tell your neighbours what a terrible landlord has come to
Distresna.”

In a few minutes the room was full of the people pressing
round Marcella, begging to touch her hand, pouring out their
cead mille failthes and blessings on her head. It was long before
the excitement had subsided and business was begun. All that
day and many days after the new landlord sat in her place between
the yellow lilies, making a picture in the shadowy old room, listen-
ing to the cases laid before her, distributing justice, promising
help, lowering rents and granting new leases. After all the busi-
ness was done her rent roll was considerably disfigured, but her
heart was more at rest. Were not these poor over-joyed creatures

242 Marcella Grave.

her actual children? Had they not been given bodily into her
charge? Had not Providence ordained that enough sustenance
should be derived from the land for her and for them also P Should
she store up all the grain for herself and leave nothing for them
but the husks? Forbid it, righteous God !

Her next step was to invite the tenantry, men, women, and
children, all who could come, to a house warming at Crane’s Castle.
The great barn and out-houses were cleared for dancing and deco-
rated with heather. Pipers were hired, and a supper was prepared
such as the tenants of Distresna had never seen before. Invitations
were sent to the gentry also to be present at the Peoples’ Bail ;
but few of them were at home, and still fewer cared to come.
Already many heads were shaken over Miss O’Kelly's strange
beginnings with her tenantry. But what could be expected of her,
seeing she had identified herself from the first with those queer
half-Fenian Kilmartins? Yet the dance went on as merrily as
though under the patronage of a queen. Marcella danced with
her tenants and helped them with her own hands to the good
cheer she had prepared for them. The children undertook to
teach her the step of the Irish jig, while Father Daly looked on and
applauded, and the crowd stood back to watch the performance
with delight.

When the step was learned she danced it with Mike, the moun-
tain lad who had frightened her with his unnecessary warning.

“ Mike,” she said, when the jig was finished, “ that was all a
mistake—I mean your fear that there was harm in store for Mr.
Kilmartin.”

“I hope so, Miss—I hope so,” said Mike, but his beaming
looks of pride ond joy at being danced with by “herself” vanished
like the sun under a cloud. “All the same, there's people here
to-night that I do not like the looks of. There’s a party in the
hayloft and bad scran to the dance they have danced, nothing but
chattin’ under their breath and dark looks for anybody else that
goes near them. One of them’s a stranger in these parts and the
others are no credit to them they belong to. But whisht, Miss,
whisht! Sure we ben’t to take notice o’ them. It’s Mike will
keep watch for himsel’ and yoursel’, an’ if danger comes back on
the wind, he'll run before everything else with the news of it.”

€248.)

IN A GARDEN.
BY KATHARINE TYNAN,

KNOW a garden, lone and grey,
‘Winds are wandering there all day ;

Sweet hands laid there long ago

Seeds of all the flowers that blow.

Sweet hands fenced it round with care,
Planned and shaped each bright parterre,
Made it fruitful, made it good,

‘Yea, with dew of red heart's blood!

Rained the rains, and laughed the sun,
Still the patient hands toiled on :
Grew the garden all one plot

Roses and forget-me-not.

There, like angels carved in stone,
Silver-winged, the lilies shone ;
Heart-strings fashioned as a lute
With the music standing mute.

Pansies, dusk and velvety,
‘And all other flowers that be,

Kaised their innocent eyes and smiled
All within my garden wild.

Tn the midst, the water clear

Of alittle happy mere

Laughed to Heaven in baby glee,
Rang the glad sound goldenly.

A brown bird, one happy hour,
‘Made his neat in this green bower—
Sang and sang till day grew dim
From the passionate heart in him.

O but all the place was fair !
Swootest eyes that ever were

Gazed across the bowers and through,
Saw no other thing to do.

Then the Master to His side
Called one: “ wilt thou here abide?
With my agony and sweat,
Toiling in the noon-day heat,

244

Ina Garden.

“T have made it fair for thee:
Keep it fair for thee and Me,
‘Wends my pathway far away,
I will come another day.”

As He turned, and set His face
From the innocent garden waye,
Sang my bird in leafage dim
Lustily in praise of Him.

Grew the time from green to gold,
Summer's treasures manifold

Lay upon the lap of June—
Overflowed her full hands soon.

Her fair arms enclaspad close
Hawthorn, woodbine, faint wild rose,
Nestling to her bonny breast,

Later days may take the rest.

In a starlight, strange and sweet,
‘Who comos by with bleeding feet ?
On His weary golden head

Dank and cold the dews are shed.

“T am wounded sore,” He saith,
And a sob is in Hia breath;
“T have borne a grievous load,

Travelled on a thorny road.

“Tam weary nigh to death,

And mine own are cold,” He saith,
“Tn yon hamlet by the shore
Ihave knocked at many a door.

“I have called all night,” He saith,
“ But the village slumbereth ;
Lights are out and all asleep—
None my weary watch to keep,

“ Dark it is, and night-dews fall;
But I know a banquet hall,
Steeped in warm aud radiant air
Ina palace past compare,

“ And within that royal house,
With the gold crown on His brows,
Stands the King of earth and aky,
And that great King’s Son am I.

“1 will seek His fair abode,

Rest me from my weary load,

Ney,” He saith, “but here should be
Garden bowers that bloom for me.

In a Garden. 945

“Here a bird in olden time,
Sang from Matin song to Prime,
And his pipe was sweeter far
Than the lutes and viols are.

« Lilies angel-fair of face

Stood about a peaceful place,

With their moon-pale wings and sweet,
Folding them from head to feet.

“While they dreamed of me,” He saith,
“ Roses praised me with their breath ;
Laughed a small mere goldenly

With a strange sweet joy for me.

“I will rest me here,” He saith,

«© Ere I cross yon lonely heath;
Sweet ‘twill be an hour to go
Through the bowers that love me so."

So He gladly turns aside;
Yonder swings the wicket wide
Enters in—O sad surprise !
Wreck and ruin meet His eyes.

Everywhere His swift gaze goes,
Broken lily, dying rose:

‘Thorne o'ercreep the dark earth's face
In this strange unwholesome place,

Strong the nettles, rank and tall,
Poppy flaunteth over all,

Deadly nightshade hath o’ergrown
Sweetest flowers were ever blown.

Dead the bird, or singing is

Tn some fairer bower than this;

Goes the Master on and on

With His sweet face strange and wan.

With a tremor and a thrill
Cometh morn acrose the hill;
Rove-gold from her clear lamp shed
Falleth on the Mesters head,

Streameth very still and clear

On the waters of the mere,

Grown a marish choked with weeds:
Tall and slender stand the reeds :

Tall and slender and forlorn,
Frail against the risen morn,

Lo! across the radiant miste,
Wind that bloweth where it lists

246

In a Garden.

Taketh them with sudden breath,
Over each reed-mouth murmureth,
‘With a mighty quivering,

Hark! the reeds begin to sing.

With a sudden wailing cry,

With agrieving melody,

Strangely sweet, and shrill, and clear,
In the golden atmosphere.

Passionate, as though one should take
Some lost heart grown like to break,
‘Wild with woe, and loss, and love,
And should make a lute thereof.

‘With his mind on music bent,

Should lean o'er his instrument,
Striking out some deathless strain,
From the straitened heart-strings’ pain.

So the wind leans over these,
While his fingers touch the keys,
Striking clear wild notes and thin,
From the breaking hearts within.

One who standeth by the mere,
Bendeth very low to hear,

Flusheth the wan mere to flame,—
‘Hush ! the ead reeds sob His name.

These had held some memory dim,
In their lonely hearts of Him—
Some old echo it might be

Of the lost bird's melody.

‘Wanes the music, ebbs and dies ;
Grave and pitying are His eyes,
And His lips grown tenderer,
For that desolate music, fair,

So He turns, and takes his way
Down the garden flushed with day,
Now, who lieth in the dust?

He who hath betrayed his trust.

‘Deep the sleep that holds him bound,
With dead wreaths his brows are crowned,
Fumes of last night’s revelries

Bring strange phantoms to his eyes.

Bendeth low the Beautiful,
Lays His fingers, sweet and cool,
On the sleeper’s burning brows
Fevered with the late carouse.

In a Garden. 247

Oh! he riseth hastily

With a sudden anguished cry,
Falleth at his Master's feet,
Shrinketh from his eyes so sweet.

Shrinketh from the ead fair face,
Casts hisarms in mute embrace
Round the blessed feet, that bleed
From the thorny road they tread;

Lays his shameful face to them,
Kisseth wild the garment’s hein,
Sayeth nought, his lips are dumb,
For his shame no words will come

Cowereth he in woe and dread—
Lo! a soft hand on his head,

Lo! a sweet voice sayeth low,
“Sleep! dost fear thy shepherd so?

“ Child! forget thy grieving sore,
Turn to me, and sin no more,
Come, heart! there is much to do,
‘We will plant the ground anew.

“Here one thought of me,” He saith,
“ Hath remained ‘mid sin and death:
Sing thy frail reeds silverly
A fair mystic song for me.i

“Shall mine enemy despoil

‘This, made fruitful by my toil,
‘Watered with my blood and sweat,
Working in the noon-tide heat P.

“Nay, indeed, it shall not be,

Come, sweet heart! wilt strive with me
Till thy garden desolate

‘Hath regained its olden state;

“Till the lone, death-stricken bowers
Flush with frait, and flame with flowers,
‘And a new bird wings its way

Here, in some fair future day,

‘Who shall learn with patient meed
From the wailing of each reed,
How to sing so goldenly,

‘That my heart shall gladdened be,

“ When grown weary, sore distressed,

T shall come for sweetest reat,

To the lovely bower apart, C
Of mine own beloved’s heart.’ -

€248.)

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.
BY JOHN FALLON.

Parr VI.—Sevitte on THE Fesrivat or Corpus Curisti.

Joy bells fill the air this morning, from the earliest hour: and, as
I sally out, I find the universal care is to have the streets, through
which the procession is to pass, carefully swept and sprinkled with
rose-scented water, then strewn with myrtle leaves and shaded
with awning. The cool fragrance is delicious.

Here and there, hundreds of chairs are being clustered and
ranged, in every advantageous position, either as private specula-
tions, or to accommodate privileged guests. Gradually, as the
moments fly, the streets become lined with infantry, mostly under-
aged, with their uniforme ill-filled, but evidently the material of
fine and brave men. Their officers, most of them youthful also,
look gentlemen all over ; the profusion of war medals which they
wear is a problem to me, spreading across their chests from shoulder
to shoulder. In front of the archbishop’s palace a squadron of
cuirassiers of the guard is drawn up, all splendid men: anda
battery of artillery, equally select, is ranged in the cathedral
square, to thunder out its salvoes as time draws on.

It was my happy fortune, shortly after I reached the noble
cathedral, to witness the far-famed dance before the Blessed Sacra-
ment, a subject of such legitimate curiosity to believers, and of
such unreasoning ridicule to agnostics who have not seen, or who
have failed to appreciate, the symbolism of the reality. I confess
that, for my own part, I had previously imagined something very
different from what I now saw. To me the dream was of acolytes, in
red soutane and white surplice, waltzing in couples round the sanc-
tuary, to some quaint old measure, more or less appropriate. What
was my surprise to see eight small choristers, dressed in the grace-
ful page costume of the seventeenth century, in striped pink-and-
white silk, with plumed hats to match, walking a stately minuet
with measured steps, to the music of their own young voices and
clattering castagnettes, accompanied by the organ’s softest tones.
And they sing their different parts with truth and boldness, and
with all the clear joyous ring of boyhood.

Nor does this take place within the sanctuary, but in front of

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 249

an altar erected for the festival on a gigantic scale, near the exit
in the west end, and almost over where the son of Christopher
Columbus lies buried. Originally this unique dance was performed
by six court pages, hence its name: “ il baile de los seises” (the
dance of the six.) Now the pages have given way to choristers,
and the number is increased to eight, but the name, and the
costume, remain. I have already mentioned that Seville claims the
glory of having been foremost in obtaining for the whole world
the separate celebration of this festival apart from that of Holy
Thursday. And this historic fact is what this courtly dance is
meant to commemorate, even in the teeth of this prosaic age,
which scoffs and smiles, but understands not.

The music is simple, and I am glad that I took it down, for I
tried in vain to procure it afterwards, either in print or manuscript.
It is as follows:

torre 1» tt '

pte ees

During the first four bars the young pages, four on each side,
slowly advance as if to meet, taking two steps toeach bar. During
the second four bars each side slowly retires backwards to its original
place. During the third four bars each side again advances half-
way. During the last four bars each side comes uver to the oppo-
site, and each page turns sharply round. Strange as you may
think it, this simple movement, joyously done, is most effective,
and the castagnettes, marked by the dotted accents over the notes,
give historic character and dignity to the figure, and render it a
complete success.

And as it ends, the organs peal forth in all their majesty of

250 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

sound, like thunders that would burst the vault of heaven, and
the procession begins to move off.

This is the time for us to fly by a side-entrance, to secure
aeata before all traffic is suspended, and this we do with rare
success, of which I shall tell you presently, but first, the pro-
cession !

To appreciate it correctly I think you should bear in mind the
spoliations and suppressions of convents and monasteries which
have taken place in this land, almost within living memory. The
various banners of the religious orders, the picturesque variety of
their habits, the children whom they reared, the guilds and sodali-
ties which they fostered, the trains of nobles of highest lineage
who were proud to follow in their wake in humblest disguise, all
that is gone, utterly vanished. You can study it in old pictures,
you can read of it in old books, but you will see none of it to-day.
What you actually witness is simply this:

The whole length of the streets lined on each side with
infantry in file, along the line selected for the procession. Within
the space thus kept open, all sprinkled with myrtle leaves, there
comes an apparently endless stream of boys, walking two and two
each carrying a lighted taper. The first little processionists are
tiny ; gradually and steadily they grow, and with them their
tapers, as the stream flows on, in hundreds and hundreds, till
at last they are full-grown men, with stout tapers as tall as them-
selves, and with flags and bannerets interspersed, I suppose de-
noting their guilds. All are dressed in plain black coats or
jackets, and white trousers; and not a single taper but is light-
ing, such is the marvellous climate. Next come liveried repre-
sentatives of the municipality, in costume more or less varied, but
scarcely picturesque; and thus ends the lay element of the pro-
cession. Judging by the faces, I should say its components belong
to the artisan or middle class, but nobility of race is impressed on
them all.

Now come long double files of acolytes, in crimson soutane and
surplice of white lace, each with a curious diadem of brass, gilt and
embossed, encircling his forehead ; each, also, with his hair gum-
med over and sprinkled with gold dust. Strange and weird this
fashion looks, like some relic of the Gothic days!

And now, between the acolytes, the clergy advance, some two
and two, some four abreast, some in soutane and surplice, others
in gorgeously embroidered limp vestments of mediwval type, the
loving and almost matchless labour of an age of fajth. Many

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 261

are mitred, and all, including the archbishop, hold heavy lighted
tapers in their hands, which they use as walking staffs, or croziers:

At intervals, between the clergy, the historic statues of the
cathedral, and perhaps of the city, are borne on the shoulders of
strong men concealed beneath the ingeniously contrived platforms
on which those statues are erected. Thus the dead past revives,
and uurolls before you its speaking record of heroes whom the
church has canonized. You see St. Leander and St. Isidore, the
brother archbishops of Seville, one after another, before the Moors
invaded Spain, themselves Gothic princes of the blood, and historic
giants in an age-of great men. You see their royal and martyred
nephew, St. Hermenegilde. You see their grandest pupil, St.
Hildefonse (now softened into Alonzo), whom Toledans claim as
their archbishop, beloved of heaven. You see St. Ferdinand,
who rescued the city from the Moors, after a long and most
romantic siege: his bronze effigy is literally weighted with emer-
alds and rubies, and he looks all over aking. You see Saints
Rufina and Justina, like two sisters, sustaining the Giralda with
their arms during a hurricane which swept over the city in the year
of Isabella’s death (1504). And you see other statues, of saints
all unknown to me, and several have movable heads, which bow
benignantly from side to side, as they are mutely borne along :
this is a survival of the realistic tastes of another day; but in
this latter quarter of the dry nineteenth century, it looks passing
strange.

And now, borne on the shoulders of many men, you see a
superb statue of the Blessed Virgin, in silver or gold, it matters
little which, for it is literally encrusted with brilliants . . . Then
comes the “nitio Jesu”... and finally the Blessed Sacrament,
under a massive canopy of silver, resplendent with diamonds and
gems of rarest water. When I tell you that sixteen men are
straining in reverential silence, supporting the huge weight, you
will agree that I may well call it massive. In front of it acolytes,
walking backwards, are filling the air with incense from their
golden thuribles. All the huge assemblage kneels low, while
softened harmonies swell on the air, till drowned with the loud
salyoes from the cathedral front, proclaiming the passage of the
Lord of Hosts. A mounted guard of honour brings in the rere:
the ranks close in, the crowds break up, and all is over.

Have I created disappointment in thus summarising the pro-
cession, such as I saw it. If you can read between the lines, you
will fill up the gaps which no doubt you feel—gaps created aby the

Vou, xii. No. 143.

252 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

spirit of Voltaire, and the robberies of his proselytes. Thus you
can reconstruct the procession as sí was, in the days of its former,
and perhaps unique splendour. My poor pen has only tried to
give you the framework of what remains, such as “mine own
eyes ” saw it to-day.

To see this procession, no places would satisfy the proud ambi-
tion of my young Cambridge friend and self but the most select
in the “Plaza de la Constitution,” and we took them in honest
simplicity, fully expecting to pay for them in gold. What was
our surprise, when all was over, to find that coin was not in the
question. Like true foreign barbarians we had-intruded exactly
into the seats specially reserved for the nobility, one of the
proudest in Europe, where’ special cards were the sole passport,
and servants gorgeously arrayed in plush and gold were the sole
ushers. Elsewhere our mistake would have been all too speedily
notified to us. Here not one single one of those perfectly bred
Sevilians would allow us to be disabused of our audaciously
plissful ignorance, though each precious seat was in most obvious
demand, and thus we remained undisturbed till all was over. I
dare not venture to describe the fair ones that wandered out from
this select circle: such themes are for poets. People in Northern
Europe sing of dream faces! Here they are in the reality,
dozens and scores of them, rich in the inherited charms of fifty
generations, still as the poets of classic Rome tried to paint them,
all in vain! If you have studied the ideal faces of Murillo, I can
only add that their archetypes are still here, full of fresh life, and
light, and joy, and probably thinking of the afternoon's amuse-
ments, and... an early dinner!

Rambling through the streets, like all the rest, we see people
ascending the Giralda, and mount, paying a small fee at entrance.
There are no steps of stairs within the old Moorish minaret, but
simply inclined planes along the four faces, eo that literally you
might ride a horse to the top of the Moorish work. When that
is reached, a small spiral staircase, exceedingly steep and narrow,
brings you farther up amidst the Christian addition, to the bells,
till your conscience is satisfied that you can ascend no further.
Those bells are now pealing in all their might, turning head over
heels in their eagerness, all except the big one of all, which
merely swings in solitary dignity of itsown. The revolving is done
by ropes, coiled round wheels of huge diameter attached to the
beams. This sounds plain enough, but the acrobatic feats of the
bell-ringers are a sight perhaps unique. As each revolving bell

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 253

coils upwards, there comes a moment when no more rope remains
to spare: then up goes the bell-ringer, as if shot from a rocket,
holding on to his hemp like grim death, till he reaches some fifteen
or twenty feet in the air and then finds himself perched on the
oscillating bell-beam, like a Blondin! He seems as if the least
playful effort, or mistake, would send him toppling over a neat little
vertical drop of three hundred feet or more, to scatter into frag-
ments through the court of oranges. But of this he never dreams:
for oscillating merely to draw breath, with one joyous bound he
springs backwards, with the uncoiling rope hard in hand, descend-
ing by his own mere weight. If you do not mind, he will come
down on your head : then, with accelerating movement, he uncoils,
and uncoils, till at last he is coiled and caught up again, and so he
goes on, up and down, with deafening zeal, “ por cazar el diáblo ”
(to hunt the devil).

You fly from the overwhelming sound, but it meets you fresh
and renewed at every face, as if all the world were in conspiracy
to hunt yourself : and presently one of the bell-ringers pauses, and
looks at you smiling, as if to offer you a mount!

Of course you will expect that the view from the Giralda is
superb, with the “huerta” on every side, the Guadalquivir flow-
ing through, and the Sierra Moréna in the near distance; and
people who have the good fortune to see it in early spring describe
it as such, when the land is bursting into fresh verdure, like the
garden of the Hesperidés. But remember that I am in the full
glare of midsummer, and that Andalusia, in this respect, is next
door to Africa, The dog-days, thank goodness, are yet far away,
but already the spring cereals are all reaped, and the far-famed
Guadalquivér, reflecting its surroundings, flows yellow, through a
landscape of pale buff. The Sierra Moréna is enveloped in a dry
and thirsty haze of white. Of all the thousands who are on foot
to-day through the streets, scarcely a soul is visible, for the awnings
that overspred the streets now screen them all. Awnings likewise
cover the charming “ patios” of the houses, screening the fountains
and plants, All that the eye can see, through the wide breadth of
queenly Seville, is a wilderness of yellow and brown, canvass and
tiles! Such is the city from the Giralda, as I saw it to-day!

* * * *

A few hours are now for rest, before the bull-fight.* The pro-

[* The following description will be relished not leas but more by those of
our readers who remember Mr. Nathanael Colgan’s extremely graphic account of
“A Bull Fight at Granada in 1880” (In1sa MontHcy, VoL. 1x, p. 491). Ep.
LM]

254 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

prietress of the hotel, half wild with excitement, forgets her siésta,
and strikes up lovely Sevillaiias, Malagueiias, and Gaditafias, singing
boldly at her piano, to her own accompaniment. We, pilgrims,
from the northern isles, together with two Oxonians just homeward
bound from Nubia, form the appreciating audience, and try in vain
to form a chorus. She can sing like Trebelli, and her piano was
the beloved of Tamberlik, when that matchless tenor was abiding
here.

I regret to note, as a faithful historian, that this fair hostess.
is already stout and fat, although much under the proverbial forty !
Her mother sometimes drags her unwieldy weight across the marble
hall like ball of tallow, painfully panting in the effort! While
her daughter skips along, like a thing of air, in the full glory of
her teens! . . . In a few short years the daughter will be gradually
assuming the ponderosity of our fair hostess : she will be gradually
becoming what the mother is now: while the old lady, from sheer
expansion, will have “ gone over to the majority! ”. Such is the
fate of those sylph-like fair ones, whose step to-day “ is light as.
the breezy air,” as they bound through the gladsome streets :
premature obesity is their too general doom.

But peace to those saddening reflections: the hour of the bull-
fight is approaching. We had engaged seats last week, next the
“*barréra” (wooden barrier which encircles the arena), and had got
them “a la sombra” (in the shade), and in the very first row. Five:
o'clock was the hour fixed, and it was still only three. Notwith-
standing all this, the whole world was already in motion: so,
imitating contagious example, we got under weigh.

Chariots of another age flew past us as we drove along ; some.
drawn by six mules, some by eight, all decorated with tassels and
bells which shook and tinkled as they galloped along. Soon the
“plaza de toros” is reached, a perfect colloseum, only circular.
Built throughout of solid stone, the seats rise in concentric circles,
tier above tier, and most of the top row is arcaded above. I had
ample time to explore the outer precincts before entering: the
stables and stalls, the hospital for emergencies, the numerous modes
of ingress and egress all numbered ; everything is systematically
arranged on the plan of a Roman amphitheatre. Gradually, but
quickly, the immense and highly classic interior, made to hold
eleven thousand people, becomes densely filled with a mass of
expectant humanity, all buzzing and fanning, till not a vacant

<= place is left. Fans, for this occasion, seem in immense demand,
3 paper ones, procurable for a fraction at the entrances, are-

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 255

eagerly bought even by the men of the humbler classes, who have
to sit it out in the sun. So that you can picture the sunny side
of the arena quite a moving mass of fans, yellow, blue, and red.

Oranges and iced water are the refreshments in vogue; and
one of the diversions, during the cheerful interval of expectancy,
is to see the oranges flying, with unerring skill, from the orange-
seller below the barrier, to some occupant of the middle benches,
who has had the confidence, and the skill, to throw him down a
peséta!...

Hush! the alcalde has taken his seat in the state box, almost
over my head. The clarions sound, and out comes a gorgeous pro
cession, defiling through a side-door into the arena. Foremost is
an alguazil, dressed all in black velvet and sable plumes, not
meant for fight, but looking very brave on his prancing Andalu-
sian. Next come the two complete ‘“torero” bands, in sepa-
rate “ quadrilles.” Each quadrille comprises four or six “ chulos ”
(pronounced tshoo-los) and a pair of “banderilleros,” under a
“primer espada,” all on foot, followed by a suite of mounted
“ picadors.”

The picadors, as their name implies, are armed each with a lance,
with a very short spike in the end. They are dressed in buckskin,
and their legs are protected with heavy greaves, strengthened with
steel bands. In appearance they resemble, more than anything
else, the troopers of the time of Oliver Cromwell. So ponderous
is their costume that when they are thrown from their steeds (or
oftener with them) they require assistance even to rise from the
ground. '

As for the main body of each quadrille (chulos, banderilleros
and primer espéda, all alike), they wear the picturesque and well-
known torero costume, each man in a colour of his own, all richly
embroidered in silver or gold. One is in green, another is in pink

- lilac . .. violet... crimson...&c. Each torero wears a
chignon ! and a hanging plait of hair! the chignon is artificial,
but the plait of hair is genuine! His face is closely shaved. On
his head he wears a small black cap, with flapping peaks, which
sometimes remind one of ears! On his left arm is caught a large
crimson cloak, with which to attract, or distract, the bull.
Lavender silk stockings, with richly buckled shoes, complete the
nether man.

The “ primer espáda ” of one of the quadrilles, on this auspi-
cious day, is Frascuélo, a man of quite universal reputation in
Spain ; even the children have learned to lisp his name. (Yet his

256 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

real name is not Frascuélo, but Salvator Sanchéz. Tauromachian
favourites, however, like pet pugilists of the prize ring, must submit
to popular re-christening, and learn to glory in it.)

The “ primer espáda ” of the other quadrille is a native of this
city, and consequently a warm favourite with the bulk of the peo-
ple, on the sunny side of the arena. Infer from this that there
will be to-day a fierce amount of rivalry between the two
quadrilles.

Quickly the alguazil canters to the foot of the alcaldé’s state
box; the key of the “toril” (where the bulls are kept) is thrown
to him ; with it he gallops across the moistened yellow sand, hands
it to the keeper, and disappears. The clarions sound aguin; the
ring is cleared of all but the quadrille which is to open the ball ;
the gates are unbolted, and out rushes a noble Andalusian bull,
black and glistening as jet, not very much larger than a good
Kerry, but with immense horns and superb muscle.

For a moment he pauses, to get attuned to the light—his tail
stiffens—he sniffs the air—then, with magnificent dash, unknown
to our northern breeds, he charges af full speed some picador or
chulo who has had the luck to attract his attention, and the fight
begins.

Picture to yourself bull No. 1. It is a picador that is the object.
of his first attack. The picador receives him on the right side with
his lance, and must only thrust it at the animal a shoulders. Back

darts the infuriated beast, and charges again. One moment, and
horse and man are in the air : the next, and both are stretched upon
the yellow sand, the poor horse, as if deliberately, between the
picador and the enemy. On comes a chulo, with trailing cloak, to
distract the attention of the beast, and thus save the fallen picador.
Right well he does it, for in a few seconds he himself has to fly for
dear life: his feet scarcely touch the soil, he vaults like an Ariel
over the high wooden barrier, leaving his crimson cloak behind him :
and not one infinitesimal fraction of a second too soon, for in his
wake the huge horns come crashing against the wood-work, with
loud drumlike reverberation, while he is still in mid-air. This sort
of thing brings down the plaudits of the multitude, on bull and
man alike, and thus the fight proceeds, an alternation of hair-
breadth escapes, and fallen picadors and horses, for six or seven
ininutes, till the clarions sound again, and the picadors retire. Even
the chulos disappear, all, except one or two chosen ones, who with
the banderilleros now re-enter the arena.

Each of the two banderilleros now holds a pair of barbed

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 257

jevelins, with streamers attached. The bull has arrived at that
stage, that it is scientifically practicable for an expert to look him
almost in the face, just standing a little sideways, and to calculate
his movements to a nicety, by the position of his forelegs. A chulo,
by means of his trailing cloak, draws the infuriated animal to the
centre of the arena. Here one of the banderilleros is waiting to
meet him. It is no child’s play, for the animal is full of fight, and
the least mistake will be fatal. For one moment the banderillero
poises his javelins, one in each hand: then, with a rapidity which
the eye cannot follow, they are pendant from the shoulders of his
enemy, while he is flying to the nearest barrier, which he clears at
abound. His companion follows suit; then he again, with fresh
complications of danger and of skill.

For instance I saw one banderillero to-day sit on a chair till
the bull came right up to him. One's eyes grew dim involuntarily :
next moment the chair was in the air, but the banderillas were
in the shoulder, and the banderillero was coolly bowing to the
applause of eleven thousand throats. A great many men have
been killed, attempting this exploit.

Again the clarions sound ; exeunt chulos and banderilleros ; enters
Frascuélo, cool, calm, alone. He has left aside the long crimson
cloak with which he had joined and led his quadrille. He has now
a bright Toledo sword, partly enveloped in a short bright scarlet
cloth. Cap in hand, he makes a short formal speech in front of
the alcalde, then up to the bull he goes. The two seem to know
each other, and stand in mutual expectation. A chulo is signalled,
to draw the bull into position, that the last act of the drama may
be immediately under the eyes of some patron, or patroness, whom
Frascuélo wishes to compliment. Even in this supreme moment
the bull is full of danger, as Frascuélo has often known to his cost.
Still he advances, cool, smiling, and “serene.” . . . A few passes
with the small scarlet cloak, a few magic steps aside, then, swift as
the lightning flash, the steel is buried to the hilt, right between the
shoulder blades, and the noble beast succumbs at last!

One great long cheer rends the firmament; fans, hats, and
cigars go flying through the air, and down into the arena, while
Frascuélo bows his smiling thanks. The fans, on the assumption
that they come from ladies’ fingers, are tenderly handed back from
bench to bench. The hats, sombréros all, are shot up to their
owners with unerring accuracy. The cigars are calmly appropri-
ated by the chulos, who have crowded in around their great master
and to whom they ought to suffice for many a day.

258 Notes of a Bhort Trip to Spain.

And now teams of mules, four to each, gaily caparisoned as
usual with bells and tassels, enter at a smart gallop. Attendants,
in Garibaldian red shirt, attach the ropes to the dead, and away
they go at full speed. The sand is raked, the toréros whiff a
cigarette, and the clarions sound for a fresh foe and victim. Thus
the fierce game proceeds till six bulls are despatched, and twelve
or fourteen horses are sent to their last long rest.

Some incidents occurred to-day which struck me as charac-
teristic ; let me tell you one of them :

The local favourite had slipped, and was down beneath the
horns of his enemy: his doom, to all appearances, was sealed, for
his chulos tried all their craft in vain to distract theanimal. Out
comes Frascuélo, cloak in hand: with fearless art he draws the
mantle right across the eyes and nose of the foe, stepping ever away
with matchless skill, till he fascinates the animal to the other side
of the arena, and given time to his rival to regain his feet, safe and
unhurt. “ Aplausos y puros a granél!” (cheers and Havannahs
in heaps). Such is the sequence of this fresh exploit, while the
prince of toréros again retires, smiling, bowing and imperturbed.

The presents do not always take the form of cigars: pocket-
books containing bank-notes to a considerable amount, cases of
diamond-studs, &c., have been thrown down ere now. Nothing
so grand fell from the gods to-day. But a box containing two
turtle doves, snow-white, and tied together with crimson ribbon,
was one of the gifts. And another, containing a number of live
bats, quickly followed, and opened with the shock. Up went the
long-eared animals of twilight, careering through the dazzling
firmament, higher and higher, till lost to view and recollection,
amidst the absorbing vicissitudes of the fight.

Does not this remind you somewhat of the bouquets to a prima
donna at an opera, and of the witty favours which used ere now
to come down from our Dublin Olympus? and does it not show
you that mankind is more or less alike everywhere P

And now, to conclude about the bull-fight of Seville, seen
here at its best, and on its grandest day. The “correct thing ”
for me would be to express my ineffable disgust at the whole per-
formance, sympathy with the bulls, disapprobation of the riske
which the toréros run, &c., &o., &. ... But I will only say what
T think:

The bull, to my mind, gives as much as he gets, and makes his
enemies pay well for his death before he dies. His rage, paradoxi-
cal as it may seem, is almost obviously a most effectual anodyne to

Notes af a Short Trip to Spatn. 259

the few prickly wounds which he receives, before the final one lays
him low. Compare him with the salmon, that is “ played” by
lady’s fingers for hours! Compare him with those of his own
kind, who are driven into a knacker's yard, without even the option
of one last brave stand for freedom; and ask yourself, if you
were in his place, which fate would you prefer P

As for the men, the dangers they run are unquestionable, as
events yearly and monthly and, sometimes, weekly, prove, just the
same as those of steeplechase-riders in England and Ireland : still
they get no more than they bargain for, and they are almost too
richly remunerated. Frascuélo, for this day’s performance, will
get five hundred pounds, out of which he will, of course, pay a
handsome dividend to his quadrille, but from which he will reserve
the lion’s share for himself. This very night, or to-morrow, he
will be off to some other large city, to repeat the performance, for
an equal fee! As he stands, he clears a larger income than the
foremost practitioner at the Irish bar, or, let us say, the Prime
Minister of England : and he means to spend it right gaily during
the winter, at Biarritz and elsewhere.

No! I pity neither the bulls nor the men; my sympathies are
solely and entirely with the horses. Their present treatment is the
blot of the bull-ring, and, unless remedied, will be its doom. Nor is
it, historically speaking, an integral or essential part of the sport
or game, to have twelve or fourteen horses gored and slaughtered
inaday! Time was, and not so long ago, when the picadors were
volunteers of the noblest blood, mounted on Arab horses who could
turn and twist on a billiard table, and fly like the wind. Even
royalty disdained not to “ condescend into the arena ;” it was an
ordeal which almost every king of Spain was expected to go through
right joyously ; and we read that Philip II., dreamy visionary as
he was, and even his mighty father, the emperor Charles V., in all
the plenitude of his power, deemed such displays by no means
beneath them. Even in the medisval days of the Cid it was so,
both on the Moorish side, and the Castilian: and I hope to tell you
a legend that will prove this, if you reach with me as far as
Madrid.

But of late all this is changed : the picadors, like their mounts,
are of the lowest caste, and hence the holocaust. One obvious
alternative remains: improve the mounting of the picadors, or
eliminate them altogether. One or other, or the doom of the bull-
fight is sealed; for one of the redeeming points of our so much
censured age is an honest gentlemanly feeling for horse-flesh !

260 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

Having heard and read that the fair ones of Seville give tone
to this amusement, let me note, as a faithful chronioler, that the
“upper ten” of the fair sex were quite conspicuous by their
absence. And, as I spoke of fans flying through the air, please
remember that most of them were waved, and thrown by men!
Returning on foot, I had leisure to see the “ paséo” (drive) flash-
ing with bright open equipages, the ladies with small white lappets
of lace, to represent the national mantilla, and just a flower in the
hair: nothing more! Interpret their abstention as a decree, that
the sport must reform or die: a decree enacted by tyrants whose
will is law, destined to bind ministry and cortéz alike, without
discussion as without argument, without the fuss of a pronuncia-
mento or the inconvenience of a revolution, but with the calm
certainty of absolute and enduring success.

.

This evening the streets are again alive with festive throng.
The whole population seems on foot, but even in the narrowest
lanes there is no crushing. Pedestrians, like horses and vehicles,
observe the rule of the road, which here, as in all the other capitals
of Europe that I happen to know of, is exactly the reverse of
our own.

Here and there, small open-air improvised theatres are giving
concerts, or representations in Andalusian idiom. We stop awhile
at each, sip an ice, and pass on.

No lights now blaze from the Giralda tower, or from the
Cathedral battlements ; but the flashing glories of last night, and
the varied scenes of to-day, will, I trust, remain with mea remem-
brance fur ever.

( 261 )

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS IN THE OLD
NATION.

Parr I.

|HE Nation, established by Davis, Duffy and Dillon in October,
1842, and suppressed by Lord Clarendon in July, ’48, in-
troduced various new features into Irish journalism, one of the
most notable of which was its Answers to Correspondents. This
department was made the organ of communication not between the
editor and his correspondents, but between the founders of the
journal and the whole Irish people. It is said to have been
commonly the first column of the paper read in those days when
it was all read with an enthusiasm which some of us can recall.
We are told in Sir Gavan Duffy’s Young Ireland that though it
was necessarily written for the greater part by the Editor, all the
regular contributors were accustomed to drop a pregnant thought
into it occasionally; and that where a poet was treated with
rigorous, and apparently unmerited, severity, it was sometimes the
writer himself who wielded the lash. But it was chiefly remark-
able for fresh suggestions, or rare information on Irish subjects ;
or weighty counsel to students which are by no means out of date.
A set of the old Nation annotated by one of the contributors who
was in all its secrets, enables us to make a few extracts which will
probably please our own readers as much as they did readers of a
past generation. They have the additional interest of M.S. notes
from the annotated volume whenever they seem necessary;
notes which will nake plain many things unknown or forgotten
at present.

A traveller who has recently passed through Stewartstown, is anxious
to have all our villages planted, like it, with a stately avenue of noble
trees; and he exhorts proprietors to follow the example of Colonel
Close. We must plant our villages with prosperous men in the first
place: and then we hope to see the trees—trees of liberty planted by
the village fathers. Father Mathew, we know, advocates the universal
plantation of fruit-trees on the public roads, for the cheap refreshment
of weary travellers—a benevolent and practicable scheme, for their
abundance would make robbery improbable, aud the mere mischievous
destruction of them is not to be anticipated.

“Au [uquirer ” asks us to furnish som» questions fo - d‘soussion in

262 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

a Debating Society of which he isa member. Suitable questions are
as plenty as black-berries, To wit—‘“Is Ireland fitter éo become a
manufacturing or an agricultural country?” ‘‘ Whether was Grattan
or Flood right on the question of simple Repeal?” “ Waa the rising of
Ulster, in 1641, justifiable?” “ At what period did the English
Crown begin to have any legal right over Ireland?” “ Who was the
greatest Irishman that lived on this Island since the Invasion?”
‘Could the Insurrection of ’98 have succeeded?” “ Was the Earl of
Lucan (Sarsfield) a great general, or only a gallant soldier?” &.
These questions will send the students to the history and resources
of their country—the fittest subjects for investigation; and we will
supply them with any amount of them they may require.

“Junior” wants to be recommended the best model of a pure style
of English composition. Never mind purity, friend. Cultivate strength,
freedom, significance, and graphic power; and if you can command
these by words adopted from any source, however foreign or however
mean, do so ; and you will content your readers better than if you had
all the purity of Addison. The object of style is to exhibit your
thoughts in the most effective manner—study to do that. However, as
you may probably desire not advice, but an answer—the purest English
writer, easily accessible, is Cobbett ; and, in a statelier and richer style,
Southey. O’Connell’s Letter to Lord Shrewsbury is a model of strength,
simplicity, and condensation, and might be studied with advantage. If
some enterprising bookseller republished the most remarkable Irish
pamphlets of the last half century, amounting to about thirty, and
written by Grattan, Plunket, Bushe, Holmes, Drennan, Pollock,
Woulfe, Sheil, and others, our young men would have incomparable
models for composition, racy of the soil.

We are sorry to answer “ A Young Frenchman,” who inquires
after our national monuments, that Ireland has no national monuments,
except such as commemorate her defeat and degradation. There is
an obelisk on the banks of the disastrous Boyne, and an equestrian
statue of the Dutchman in College-green ; but there is no pillar on
the stones of Clontarf, or the banks of the Blackwater. The battle of
Waterloo, fought in a foreign country, and for a foreign country, has its
trophy in the Phoonix Park ; the battle of the Nile, won by Englishmen
and for Englishmen, has its monument in Sackville-street ; the glorious
and peaceful triumphs of ’82 and '29, won by Irishmen and for Irishmen,
are commemorated nowhere. But if our young French correspondent
will visit us a dozen years hence, we promise him, through respect to his
country, not only to take him to our National Pantheon, to see statues
of our herves, from Ollam Fodhla to O'Connell, but to spend a
fortnight in acoompanying him to the scenes where our young reviving
national art will commemorate our ancient national glory.

“ Student.” No, the letters of the Nuncio Rinuccini have not, been

Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.” 263

translated. It is true they are indispensable to a knowledge of the
“Great Popish Rebellion ” of 1641; but we blame no publisher for not
undertaking the work. The middle classes of this country are alone to
blame. The only books they purchase are a fry of tenth-rate English
and American novels, printed on tea-paper, and sold at a few pence.
The poor purchase to the extent of their means, and select wisely.
Thanks to their reading and to the national schools, they will take the
place of the ignorant rich in the next generation. The wealthy mun
who ehuts up his sons in an eternal round of labour, or who does not
furnish them with books, leisure, and encouragement for study, leaves
them among the most helpless and miserable of God’s creatures, to
struggle against intelligence and training, and to fail in the struggle.

“N——” complains of the Dundrum-road being shut in from the
country by the inhospitable custom of erecting high walls instead of
hedges as road fences, and asksa legal remedy. Why, this is the case
on nearly every road leading from Dublin. You walk, as it were, in
the cutting of a railway. And no one is more exclusive, or fences.
himself more carefully from the people, than the citizen of a few acres
in his fantastic villa. But it is not law, but a better taste and a larger
sympathy, which must throw down these inhospitable walls.

“ Maelmora.” —You are egregiously wrong. John Paul Jones was no
morea pirate than George Washington was a robber. Both, of course,
wore rebels ; at least the English said so : and you may believe them if
you like. The life of Jones in the “Celebrated Highwaymen and
Robbers,” is a very indifferent authority. Mr. John O'Connell has
alsocommitted a slight mistake in the fourth and fifth pages of his work.
It wasin August, 1779, andnot till then, that Jones appeared on the Irish
coast with his men in the Bon Homme Richard. Two of the crews
of his boats did noí desert him. One did—the only one which then
towed the Bon Homme. “ Soon after sunset,” Jones says in his journal,
“the villains who towed the ship cut the tow-rope and decamped with
my barge.” Another boat was manned and sent in pursuit, which, owing
to the fog and the night, missed its way. A cutter, the Cerf, was next
sent in pursuit, which, on coming in sight of the boat, hoisted English
colours and fired a shot. ‘he crew of the boat believing the cutter to
be veritably English, though they first supposed otherwise, pulled
ashore, and were captured. There are worse prisons than those of
France. “The master of the captured boat,” says Paul Jones, “was
conducted to a wretched dungeon in England, where he formerly had
long experience of English cruelty, from whence it was reported he was
atlast relieved by death.” We have given Jones’s own account of the
affair, and Jones’s is that given in the London and Dublin papers of the
time. We cannot permit our correspondent to measure Jones, the friend
of Lafayette, Franklin, Washington, Jefferson, as a “kidnapper of poor
fishermen.” Ireland owes Jones more than ever his herring-smack

264 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

prizes paid him. He stationed himeelf on the Irish coast, not to burn
and destroy that coast, nor to smash our trade, for we hall none—save
in votes-—but to intercept the English merchantmen and Indiamen,
to shatter English commerce, to support America, and to strike the
terror of an invasion into England’s heart. He crippled his enemy, and
up sprung the Volunteers. To Paul Jones, more than to any foreigner,
do we owe the existence of ’82. He ever hugged this thought. Ina
memorandum of his great deeds, he mentions among the greatest, that
he “constrained Britain to suffér the Irish Volunteers.” We fancy too,
his designs went further. Can any connexion exist between the First
Admiral of America, and this sentence in the journals of Wolf Tone.
“He” (General Clarke, subsequently the Duc de Feltre of the Empire)
“said, that even in the last war, when the Volunteers were in force,
and a rupture between England and Ireland seemed likely, it was pre-
pared in the French Council to offer assistance to Ireland, and over-
ruled by the interest of Count de Vergennes, then Prime Minister, who
received for that service a considerable bribe from England, and
that he was informed of this by a principal agent in paying the
money.” Whether yea or nay, let no Irishman speak coldly of Paul
Jones.

An indignant correspondent sends us a remonstrance against the
projected rebuilding of the church of Lusk, county Dublin, concerning
which the Eoclesiastical Commissioners have advertised for proposals.
Who are these Ecclesiastical Commissioners? and have they any
Merimée upon their Board to prevent them laying their blasphemous
and sacrilegious hands on what they do in nowise understand ? Oh! in-
Sandum, infandum! Are not our ancient monuments vanishing fast
enough without these profane innovators, more cruel than the tooth of
Time or the “crannying wind,” helping their destruction? In
any other country upon earth a man like Mr. Petrie would be placed on
that commission,

Another correspondent reports a more barbarous outrage from Melli-
font. Think of a man going with his hammer to visit a ruined monastery,
and imagining that he has done nothing unless he carries off pieces of
the carved stone mouldings to exhibit in England! Mollifont was the
oldest Cistercian monastery in Ireland. It was founded by O'Carrol,
king of Oriel, 1142, and its first monks were sent by St. Bernard from
Clairvaux. In 1157, a great synod was held here to consecrate the
church, at which many princes and bishops attended, and laid
rich offerings upon thealtar. Amongst others Dervorgilla, wife of
O’Ruaro, of Breffni, then young and innocent, little knowing how
dearly her country would one dey rue that fatal beauty—made
pilgrimage thither from Breffni, and presented sixty ounces of gold,
beside a golden chalice for the high altar, and furniture for nine other
altars, It always remained one of the Irish monasteries ; and although

Answers to Correspondents in the Ola “ Nation.” 265

situated on the border of the Pale, no monk of English birth was ever
admitted into it. Alas! alas! and now every puppy of en English
tourist comes and shatters the poor remains of it with his sacrilegious
hammer, and pockets as much as he can of it for the opima apolia of his
ignorant “tour!” These things must continue until we have a national
government which will take charge of national monuments, and estab-
lish a police to look after gentlemanly vagrants.

The monument to Emmet in New York has an inscription in Latin,
Trish, and English. How worthy an example for monuments in Ireland!

“M.” tells us of two girls dressed as Bavarians, and playing organs
through the town, who are veritable Irish from Connaught, and ex-
presses his wonder that they need disguises to prosper in their own
country. We wonder at his wonder. These two girls are a true type
of the country, “almost afraid to know itself.”

“A Traveller” sende us an indignant answer to the charge
of uncleanliness and discomfort made by English tourists against Irish
hotels. Let him keep his indignation for some fitter subject. The
charge in many instances is true enough. We have seen the most
beastly filth in Irish inns—north, south, east and west. On the other
hand, some of them are unexceptionable. The bad ones must be mended.
by having the truth told of them.

“An Omagh Orangeman” writes:—“I have been reading Tory
journals since I was fifteen years of age, but about six months ago a
friend of mine gave me Tur Nation. After reading three or four
numbers I threw the Tory journals aside, and immediately after I
walked no more to Orange Lodges. I must confess that it was the
reading of your journal that removed the veil which blinded my eyes.”
We don’t like this; it resembles too closely the miraculous cures effected
by Holloway’s Ointment. And why abandon the Lodges, and old friends
and old acquaintances ? We seek not to disrupt social intercourse, or
to proscribe the celebration of honored anniversaries, but to bind up all
Irishmen in their own rightful nationality. Friend Orangeman! wise
son of a atiff-necked, iron race, art thou a strong man? Hast thou
judgment and a will? If yes, place not thy candle under a bushel,
but let it enlighten thy brethren. Return to the Lodge, mix with thy
friends as of old. Tell them what thyself hast learned—what thou
seest—what thou hopest. Tell them of their country and of her great
destiny. Tell them her nationality is not opposed to your Orangeism.
Be open and show thy soul to them. Thus wilt thou convince the un-
believer, and direct the wanderer. Thus will thou perform thy mission
here, if thou hast a mission.

[Here is an answer marked J. M. (John Mitchel) in the volume
before us :—]

“A reader of the Nation.” (who says he has a wager, depending
upon our decision), asks: ‘‘ Who is the greatest man in England?”

266 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

Hudson, of course—George Hudson, the Railway King, we regard as
the highest manifestation, and indeed, the “ bright consummate flower ””
of modern English Civilisation—the type-Englishman of the nineteenth
century—the great exponent preacher, prophet, and high-priest of the
Mammon-Gospel, wherein that nation lives and moves, and has itsbeing,
he is the only hero possible in these times—the hero as railway king—if,
indeed, he be not himself an incarnation of the very numen of that golden
religion. Yet neither does this hypothesis satisfy us. No eye, we
persuade ourselves, hath seen George Hudson; he is an abstraction of
the mind and not a living wight. A generation of transcendental share-
holders, gazing earnestly into the heaven of luck, illumined by Aladdin's
Lamp, have formed to themselves an ideal of immortal money—have
spiritualised whatever they have known or dreamed of beauty in pre-
miums, of majesty in dividends, of glory in cent. per cent.—and have
called it Hudson. We have heard say that faith is dead in England.
What! is there no faith in Hudson? Do they not believe,
if not in Scripture, at least in Scrip? Have they not a hope,
anchored deep in the Stock Exchange? Oonsider the “ Testimonial”
which the English nation is presenting to George Hudson, ‘This to the
careless eye seems a mere expression of profoundest reverence by a
nation'of gamblers to the supremely lucky ; ’tis no such matter—there
is something sacred and sacrificial in it ; it is an offering of pure silver
and gold, seven times refined, to the god of the precious metals, and
is accompanied we cannot doubt, by prayers, and vows, and mystic
observances, similar to those of Eleusis. Nay, have we not heard of a
temple, or sacred precinct, called Capel court, where human sacrifices
are immolated, and where unqualitied worshippers daring to come
within the vail and gaze on the sublime mysteries with eyes profane,
are said to be transformed like Actwon, and hunted by hungry hounds ?
Now, if our correspondent complain that this is rather a Pagan myth
than an answer to his question, and that if Hudson be more than man,
the bet cannot be decided in his favour, then we refer him to “ Bell’s
Life in London.”

“Hibernicus” is wrong as to the collar of gold. It is not in the
robing room of the Queen’s Bench. We presume he intended to allude
to the collar of Moran. Moran, like the Right Hon, Edward Penne-
father, was a Chief Justice. His decisions were so upright that they
gave rise to a fable, one which we dare say will be renewed by the
grateful superstition of modern Ireland. This was, that Moran’s collar
was worn by Irish judges, and gave those warning by strong pressure
whenever they were about to pronounce an unjust decree,

( 267 )

MISS EVELYN PYNE’S “ DREAM OF THE GIRONDE.”

T° write a lyrical drama, dealing with the fortunes and fate of the

Girondists, and taking for its central figure against a lurid back-
ground of revolution, a noble and stately interpretation of Madame
Roland round which the lesser persons of this drama are grouped,
would be, one must think, an ambitious and worthy task for an
accomplished poet and playwright ; but that such a task should have
been undertaken and carried to a successful issue by a girl, is surely
a somewhat noteworthy achievement. The largeness of the work pro-
jected by the young brain, the brave persistency with which it has
been executed, as well as theclear rapid movement of the drama, the
fineness of the blank verse which is indeed technically quite perfect,
the ability with which the writer throws herself now into the character
of Madame Roland, the noble woman with her soul’s gaze fixed for
ever on the star of liberty, now into Théroique de Mericourt the revo-
lutionary fury, torn and distracted by frenzying passions, soul-darkened
with shame, and outraged love, and desire for revenge—all these must
cause some feeling of wonder to mix with our admiration for this girl
muse.

‘When the book was published by Mesers. Smith & Elder, a few
years ago, the critics, deceived by the masculine force and self-restraint
of the work, and with no clue to the sex of the writer in a Christian
name equally applicable to either sex, almost unanimously wrote of
“ Mr. Pyne;” and we believe that those same critics, kindly as they
were in this instance from the dreaded Saturday downwards, would
have been even louder in their eulogies|of “A Dream of the
Gironde, and Other Poems,” if they could have known how much of
promise was involved in this fine performance.

This is how the first scene of the first act opens, Madame Roland
being discovered alone in her home. The soliloquy throughout is fine,
but it is over long to be given as a whole:

“The years roll back, and T again am young:
A merry child, yet thoughtful ’midst my glee,”
And bearing still about me a faint trace
Of the Heaven I left with tears—and a dim glance
(They tell me) of that Heaven in pensive eyes,
And brow attuned to wonder, and low voice
Which ever knocked at hearta, and craved a, place—
In joy or sorrow—only just a placo—
A little niche—a cranny—there to rest-—
Nor feel alone in this wide earth of tears.”

‘Vou. x11, No, 143, 2

268 Hiss Evelyn Pyne’s “ Dream of the Gironde.”

This is beautiful—the womanly yearnings in the heart of the
heroine who is first a woman. The path is clear before her, to which
from childhood she has striven, the clear path leading upwards to the
stars—for as yet there is no trace of what a mirage the long-desired
liberty is to be, of the noxious fumes so soon to hide the delusive
glow of the will-o’-the-wisp to which she has striven with weary,
untiring feet, believing its white flame to be the star’s heart—yet
even now, the woman in her shrinks from the power and splendour
offered, yearning rather for the “woman’s kingdom” wherein to
rule steadfastly over one life, one heart :—

“I could cast

‘The costly bauble down, and never sigh
If in one heart I might reign ;—but this is ein,
Not merely weakness ; does it spring, alas!
From sweetness in my mother, whose meek heart
Though hidden, still returns in me, her child P
Ah! Mother, early lost but not forgot,
Is it your gentle spirit that draws near
‘When most I feel the woman ?

see still feel
‘That longing to gain entrance in each heart
Around me (ah! the woman's weakness still),
The one and not the many; the dear one,
And not the suffering many; the one love
Ie thought of, prayed for, kissed, and yet ah, mo!
The many are passed by with careless glance
And muttered benediction :—I pray God
Destroy all merely personal loving in me
And take away this thirsting for one heart,
‘My mother’s gift, my sweet dead mother's gift :—
For detail was to her as daily bread
Or morning draught of water; she would miss
The level sunlight slanting on the plain,
Embracing mountain peaks with a golden kiss,
And lighting forests with a mystic glow
Of o'er entwinéd branches, whose dim shade
A woven emerald darkness half concealed
And half enraptured sighed to full display;
To watch the truant beam on leaf or flower:
Perbape she lost the star-glow (who can say P)
In groping for stellaria ; yet her life
Passed blessed and blessing, out of human ken,
And left a fragrance, faint and tender still,
A perfume like & passing pallid rose,
A fragile mignonette :—and I her child
Have echoes of her nature, and look back
From glory—treedom—to a humble home
And quiet joys.”

Miss Evelyn Pyne’s “ Dream of the Gironde.” 269

In the second scene we are introduced to Buzot, one of the
Girondists, whose reverent passion for the heroine is very delicately
made manifest. Her adjuration to him coming soon after the opening
of the scene, to forget self and all personal loving or grieving, is very
fine, but the rhymed couplets into which Miss “ Pyne” now and then
leads her characters, are, we venture to think, a mistake; they read
weakly after the nobility of the blank verse. Jn the next four scenes
there is a good presentment of Roland, and here Robespierre first
appears. Then follows a scene in which a denunciation of the latter
by Camille Deamoulins is beautifully answered by the heroine, the
large tolerance and sympathy with lesser natures, touching one, as
does the tenderness of the woman, greatest among the writers of
prose fiction, who created for us in one benignant hour the Rev. Amos
Barton, as predecessor of the wonderful gallery of portraits with
which she has hung the walls of the treasure-house of English romance
Camille Desmoulins crying out against the malignant cowardice with
which the future chief of the Keds hampers the free movements of
the party, is thus answered :—

“Oh speak not thus! believe me, that man’s life
Is one long sobbing gasp ' suspicion :”
"Tis a defect of nature, and must be
(As ’tis by nature) pardoned : for he has
The strongest claims upon us, freedoms love
And weakness, which is anguish in her cause.
Oh, friend! we can but struggle with our hearts
Nor ever wholly conquer. Some have souls
Which Romanly can strive for Roman aims;
While some alas !—and this our friend is one—
Can truly see their high aims from afar,
And longing still, yet ever stumble on
Against some hindrance. Trifles to the rest
To these are mountains, and the amallest stone
Appears a rock which blots out the fair sky.
‘Yet nature pardons him and showers down
‘The creature-loves upon him ; sister, wife,
All simple, sweet home-ties do fetter him—
Then surely we will suffer him, my friend.”

And later with a continuation of the same thought, she says :—

é How strange it seems that we, who so much need
Forgiveness for ourselves, should yet hold back
Our pardon for a weakness in our friend,

And put our base constructions on the deeds
‘We cannot understand, being not him,

But outaide all his feelings and his soul ;

How can we know the workings of his heart,
The weak spot here, the tender beating there,

270 Miss Evelyn Pyne’s “ Dream of the Gironde.”

‘Tho influence of a word, a look, a sigh—
The hardness of a scar, which once hath bled
Until it lost all feeling P”

To this succeeds a pathetic scene between Madame Roland and her
baby daughter, concluding with a delicate and graceful little song with
which the mother soothes her darling to rest.

The next scene is certainly the most effective of the drama, and
one cannot help thinking how well it would go on the stage.

Thdroique de Mericourt, dressed in a riding habit, the colour of
blood, and accompanied by her fierce followers, chanting “‘ La Carmag-
nole,” and “ Ca Ira” rides across the scene, wearing the sword voted to
her at the taking of the Bastile, while her long dark hair streams out
wildly beneath a helmet, the plume of which is also blood-red of hue.

As she goes, she cries aloud to a comrade riding by her, for they
are going to confront the king and queen at the Tuileries :—

“And you are mad, they say, and I am mad,
‘Well let our madness make itself a way
‘Where sanity would pause! We'll to the King;
‘Deeds we can do—our madness for a cloak—
‘Will make the same world shiver in its path,
And all the blinking stars shut up their eyes
In horror at our madness.”

There is strength in this, and perfect firmness of touch.

Presently in the crowd is detected Raoul, a noble, the sometime
lover of Théroique, and he is dragged to her feet, she crying for his
blood for “the people's christening cup of vengeance.” Then comes
the recognition, he clinging about her feet, recalling in agonized re-
trospect the sweet days of their love, imploring her by those memories
to save him from the mob’s vengeance. She answers fiercely with the
undying recollection and the memories that;follow these, the work he
has accomplished by his sin, the ruined home, the dead father and
mother, and

“The small sad soul
In me, for which Obrist died—hustled away
From Heaven's gate!

God's love! you've made me doubt it if it be;
And evenif it be, round-clasping earth,
And over-shadowing mountains with ita wings,
It cannot shelter me.

My father’s curse
Would drag me from before the golden throne
God's presence seat—if angels bore me there!”

The Month of Mary. 271
And Raoul’s closing words chime fitly with the rest :

“You are not great enough—not high enough

To pardon : I have sinned to God and you—
T know and do confess it; you can kill
My body and take vengeance on my flesh ;
But for my soul I have it in His care,
And if the bell you rave of be as deep
As your revenge, He yet can rescue me
And make a ladder of His punishment
For my soiled soul to climb by.”

These are but a few extracts from a very noble play, the whole of
which would need to be read and studied in order to understand the
excellence of the execution. Chosen wisely or unwisely, we hope
that they may prove to the reader the presence in “ A Dream of the
Gironde” of true poetry. If space were not a matter to be considered,
some extracts might be given from “ Thistle Blossom,” a very high,
pure, and passionate poem which, with three other poems more or les
Jong, completes the book. We have lingered rather over the dramatic
poem which seems to us the best exponent of the author’s poetical
genius, and we venture to express a hope, that these few words,
inadequate and insufficient as they are, may make our readers look
with interest and pleasure to future work from the same pen.

THE MONTH OF MARY.

OTHER of God! who shall thy glories tell P
Thou reign’st where others serve, where e’en to serve
Io still to reign; while here in mortal life
‘To reign is but to serve. By what degrees
Shall the soul mount to measure what thou at P
‘Yet, let her soar :—so shall she still discern
Greater and greater glories without end.
‘Yea, and thy worship grows. Age after age,
in emulous devotion, multiplies
Feast upon feast, till of thy festivals
Twice nine at last, one for each century,
Ranged in sweet order, bless the rolling year.
Nor yet thy clients pause :—days, single days,
For our great love suffice not :—at a stroke
Our nineteenth cycle dedicates a MONTH
‘To thy remembrance. Sc the wavelets spread!
Bo shall they spread and grow, till thy blest name
Lighten the earth’s whole orbit with its glow !

‘Then,—ah ! what then P—then fitly comes the end!
G. RK.

t 372.)

THE LATE REV. JOSEPH FARRELL.
B.1.P.

T° many of our readers this page will be the first to convey the sad
intelligence which a month ago shocked the friends and admirers
of Father Joseph Farrell. Death did not come upon him with all the
terrible suddenness with which it has just (April 14th) hurried off
with hardly a minute’s warning Sir Edward Sullivan, Lord Chancellor
of Ireland: but its approach was so abrupt that Father Farrell
preached one of his wonderfully effective sermons on St. Patrick's
Day, and on the next day but one, the feast of his glorious name-
saint and patron, began his last illness which in two or three days took
him away from us and from all the earthly hopes we had formed for him.
Joseph Farrell was born at Maryborough on the 8let of July, in
the year 1841. From Carlow College he was sent by the Bishop of
Kildare to Maynooth, where he from the outset showed his literary
talent, gaining in his first year the solus or prize essay in English
composition. After a highly distinguished course of ecclesiastical
studies he was ordained priest in 1865, just “twenty golden years
ago.” His priestly work, beside some few years as a professor in
Carlow College, was divided between his native town and Monaster-
evan, where he died. The best authority on the subject bears witness,
in words that were not meant to be quoted, that “he did his work
carefully and punctually; he took a real delight in preaching, he did
it so well.” Indeed, even in small social matters, he made it a prind-
ple to practise exact punctuality; and such a principle, persevered in
steadily, exercises much solid virtue and is a safeguard against many
faults and misfortunes.

During Father Farrell’s sojourn at Carlow, a college magazine
was published for a short time under the auspices of the President,
the Very Rev. Dr. Kavanagh. If I mistake not, my friend only con-
tributed one or two short papers, and the “Inis Monraty” can
claim the honour of having first furnished a vent for his peculiar
literary talents. I well remember the keen delight with which, when
this magazine was just one month old, I opened out the first roll of
manuscript that came from him—his handwriting always the same in
every respect, somewhat angular, always firm and even, and always
covering the same long sheets of unruled foolecap. I think he sent
off his essays finally, without any exception, free from all erasures or
interlineations; and he made no alterations in proof sheets. AsI
have already remarked, there was in all he did an amount of system
and regularity which might not have been expected in a man of his
artistic temperament.

The Late Rev. Joseph Farrell. 278

“ The Lectures of a Certain Professor,” as they appeared one by
one in this Magazine at short intervals after November, 1878, attracted
immediately the admiration of readers and reviewers. Their popularity
forced the author to collect them into a-volume somewhat prematurely.
‘Would that the volume were much larger, as it would have been if
Macmillan and Company had not issued it for another year. Its
publication gave him the feeling of having given the world his best
and freshest in that particular form of work; and he could not be
induced to begin a second series of lectures. As it stands, this
exquisite volume seems to us the finest piece of purely literary work
produced by any Irish priest. “The Bells of Shandon” will ring on
for ever; but poor Father Prout, though never unpriestly, became a
mere litterateur. Under the title “ A Flourishing Offshoot ” we col-
lected at page 469 of our eighth volume some of the criticisms passed
on this most noteworthy of the very many separate books which have
grown out of the pages of this Magazine, We condensed the high
encomiums of The Spectator, Globe, Scotsman, Academy, Dublin Review,
Atheneum, World, Pall Mall Gasette, fe. §c., some of whom com-
pared him to Sir Arthur Helps, others to Samuel Smiles, A.K.H.B.,
Wendell Holmes, Thackeray (in his “Roundabout Papers") and even
old Montaigne himself in his better moments.

In this volume of essays Father Farrell reprinted from the “ Intex
Montuty” a few of his graver poems, such as “Judith” and
“ Seedlings,” which are fully worthy of his genius. But it is a pity
he was not induced to publish a separate volume of verse. Besides
the poems signed with his name or his initials, many of his verses,
seattered through the volumes of this periodical, are marked by the
final letters of his name, “H. L.”

‘We do not know what literary relics Father Farrell has left behind
him. The notes of many of his sermons would be well worth pre-
serving. We have at different times questioned persons from various
grades of society who had heard his preaching ; and their testimonies
proved his uncommon excellence and effectiveness both as to the
matter and manner. The Nation newspaper, in its series of “ Notable
Irish Priests,” of whom Father Farrell was the second, described his
appearance at a memorable political meeting in the Rotundo of
Dublin :—

At Inst a priest stood in the rostrum. His appearance did not awaken attention,
but his words soon did. His voice was not very musical, but it was clear and strong.
His gestures were few and simple, but the earncetness, not to say solemnity, of his
general demeanour was unmistakeable. His utterance was at once passionate and
eliberate. The words and sentences flowed clear and precise from bis lips. . . The
effect was electrical. Father Farrell on this notable occasion showed himeelf to be an
orator of almost, if not quite, the highest clase, for his speech was absolutely
Demosthenio in the example it afforded of close and sustained reasoning in conjunction
with impassioned rhetoric.””

274 An American Cyclopedia of Irish Poets.

A writer in The Weekly Register speaks of the deceased priest as
“a man of largely cultured mind, and gentle, earnest, and retiring
manners, a keen observer of human nature and a passionate lover of
books.” In other relations he was the best and most devoted of
brothers, the kindest and most constant of friends. We saw many
weeping bitterly as his remains were borne amid a vast concourse of
people from the beautiful church of Monasterevan to the rural grave-
yard of “The Heath” where his father and mother lay bofore him.
May he and they rest in peace!

This is not the last time that our magazine shall mention the name
of one whose writings greatly helped to establish it in public favour ;
but at present we need do nothing more than earnestly recommend
our dear friend to the fervent Prayers and affectionate remembrance of
all our readers.

AN AMERICAN CYCLOPEDIA OF IRISH POETS.

AMERICA is the land of big things—prairies, Niegaras, Missis-

sippis, Barnums! When one says America, one thinks of the
United States only from the Empire City to the Golden Gate, ignoring
utterly all the rest from Montreal to Monte Video. Canada and South
America have done little or nothing for literature. In the city just
indicated by its complimentary title another big thing is at present
planned, a much larger and more complete collection than any yet
existing of poetry and verse by writers of Irish birth or almost of
Irish birth. The two volumes of “Ballads of Ireland” compiled by
Edward Hayes, is the largest and best that has hitherto been published,
but that compilation was made more than twenty years ago, and much
has been done since then by Irishmen and Irishwomen at home and in
the United States.

The daring editor who has undertaken this arduous enterprise is
Mr. Daniel Connolly, 148 Fourth Avenue, New York—himeelf an
Irish-American who has proved his capacity for such a task. His
prospectus runs thus :—

Believing that an Anthology truly representative of the Irish people in both hemi-
spheres should bave a place in Standard Literature, the undersigned, after full con-
sideration of the labour involved, has undertaken the preparation of such a work, on
a thoroughly comprehensive plan. It ia intended that all Irish and Irish-American
Poots shall be represented by examples carefully selected—from collected works,
where these are available; and, in the case of writers whose productions have not
been thus brought together, from Periodicals and the Newspaper Preas. The work
is already well advanced, and it will be continued until a Collection much superior to
any of a similar kind yet undertaken is completed, In order that the whole mag be

An American Cyclopedia of Irish Poets. 275

presented in convenient form, it will appear in single volume, of some six hundred
double-column pages, printed and finished in a manner to make it worthy of a place
in any library.

‘As the field of Irish Poetical Literature is notably extensive, there is no difficulty
in finding a sufficient number of especially choice poems to fill even so large s volume ;
‘and care will be taken to admit only those entitled to this classification. ‘The selections
willbe chiefly modern, and to a large extent contemporaneous; but in order that the
work shall be thoroughly representative in character, all the older poets will have due
Prominence in its pages.

Among the Poets to be represented by full selectione, due attention being given to
variety of theme, are the following :— Thomas Moore, Oliver Goldsmith, Thomas
Davis, Gerald Griffin, Samuel Ferguson, James Clarence Mangan, Denis Florence
M'Carthy, Richard Dalton Williams, Thomas D'Arcy M‘Gee, Charles Gavan Duffy,
Rey. Francis Mahony, Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Philip Bourke Marston, Alfred Per-
cival Graves, William Allingham, Timothy D. Sullivan, Thomas C. Irwin, Aubrey De
Vere, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Lover, Francis Davis, John Boyle O'Reilly, Robert Dwyer
Joyce, Charles G. Halpine, Rev. Abram J. Ryan, Fits-James O'Brien, Charles Dawson
Shanly, Maurice F. Egan, James Whitcomb Riley, Theodore O'Hara, John Savage,
John Brougham, Joseph Brennan, Charles J. Kickham, Lady Wilde, Mrs. Caroline
Norton, Miss Frances Browne, Miss Fanny Parnell, Mrs. Mary E. Blake, Miss
Eleanor C. Donnelly, Miss Louise L Guiney, Mrs. M. A. Sadlier.

‘The book will also contain selections from the poems of Dean Swift, Rev. Thomas
Parnell, Rev. Dr. Alexander, Rev. Charles Wolfe, Dr. John F. Waller, John Banim,
John Keegan, Bartholomew Simmons, J. 8. Le Fanu, John F. O'Donnell, John
Angustus Shea, Thomas 8. Collier, Michael Scanlan, Hugh F. M‘Dermott, William
D. Kelly, John Boyle, Francis O'Rgan, John Locke, Joseph C. Clark, Joseph
O'Connor, G. T. Lanigan, James J. Roche, Rev. William J. M‘Clure, William
Collins, Justin A. M'Carthy, Edmund J, Armstrong, John K. Casey, Mrs. Margaret
F. Sullivan, Miss Katharine Conway, Miss Mary Mullaly, Miss Julia O'Ryan, Mrs,
M. J. Serrano, Mrs, Alexander, Rosa Mulholland, Katharine Tynan, Whitley
Btokee, Dr. Anster, George J. Armstrong, M. J. Barry, J. J. Callanan, Helena Cal-
lanan, William Carleton, Mrs. Connolly (*Thomasine”) Rev. George Craly, Daniel
Crilly, Rev. P. Cronin, George Darley, Thomas Dermody, Ellen Downing (‘' Mary,”)
Lady Dufferin, Dr. Drennan, Ellen Forrester, Fanny Forrester, Arthur Forrester, J.
De Jean Frazer, Thomas Furlong, Mrs. Izod O'Doherty (" Eva”), Charles Lever,
Edward Lysaght, Dr. Maginn, John Fisher Murray, Rev. Patrick Murray, D.D.,
Martin M‘Dermott, Judge O’Hagan, Archbishop Trench. John Sterling, Edward
Walsh, Bev. Matthew Russell, 8.J., Michael Hogan (“Thomond”), Arthur G.
Geoghegan, Edmund Holmes, John C. Wilson, John Patrick Brown, Thomas Dunne
English, Richard Henry Wilde, Richard E. White, Michael O'Connor, Marion Muir,
Mary E. Maunix, Margaret E. Jordan, Minnie Gilmore, William D. Gallagher, Jane
L. Gray, and others.

‘A carefully prepared department of biographical notes, separate from the body of
the work, will be in itself a feature of interest and value. No effort will be spared
to make this Anthology so thorough in every respect, that it may be accepted as a
standard work of its kind. Communications upon any matter relating to it may be

addressed to
DANIEL CONNOLLY,
148 Fourth Avenue, New York.
Many names in the above list will be utterly new to the most
poetical of our readers, These are chiefly Irish-Amoricans; and if
they be as tasteful poets as Mr. R. E. White of California, they are
worthy of such good company. Is “ John O. Wilson” a misprint for

276 Notes on New Books.

John Wilson Croker—who was an Irishman, and wrote some quotable
poetry P

Amongst the omissions which we shall for the present call attention
to are the names of Mrs. Tighe (whose “ Lily” Moore praised warmly),
Mr. Edwin Hamilton, Mr. William Wilkins, Rev. Michael Mullins
(whose “ Celtic Tongue” is ao often reprinted), and one whose death
is recorded in an earlier page of this Number—Father Joseph Farrell,
the “Certain Professor.” We are sure that Mr. Connolly has only
omitted through inadvertence Denny Lane and the late John Edward
Pigott (‘‘ Fermoy”) who each contributed two poems to “ The Spirit
of the Nation,” but these among the very best. As he has discovered
that Mr. Whitley Stokes is not merely an antiquarian, he will pro-
bably find out in time that Mr. Richard Dowling writes refined verses
as well as brilliantromances. We could not expect him to have made
a discovery which we have long intended to bring under the notice of
our readers—namely, that Edward Quillinan, who married Words-
worth’s daughter Dora, was an Irishman, a Catholic, and a poet—not
quite so good as his father-in-law.

To one paragraph of this prospectus we beg to move as an amend-
ment, that the biographical notes be noí separated from the samples
given of the various poets. Too much alllowance can hardly be
made for the laziness of the average reader, and, if the editor
separates the biography from the specimens, the average reader will
never join them together.

This preliminary note is merely intended to excite beforehand
the interest of our readers in favour of this meritorious undertaking,
and to make them resolve to be in due time readers also of the pro-
posed American Cyclopedia of Irish Poetry.

NEW BOOKS.

A very wise Master of Novices used to tell us that one of the ways
to pass through life happily was to have to crush into each day a
quarter of an hour’s work more than it might fairly be expected to
hold. This was only a strong expression for the blessedness of having
enough to do. In like manner blessed is the editor of a monthly
magazine who has just a “stick” full or two of “copy” beyond the
needs of the month! But when a man has two or three days’ work
to crush into one, or when an editor would like to have his available
space doubled, they do not come under the aforesaid beatitudes.

‘We have not room this month for even our usual nutshell criticisms
of the books forwarded for review. The most important of these is

Notes on New Books. 277

Father Ooleridge’s “Preparation for the Incarnation” (London :
Burns & Oates). This is the opening volume of “ The Life of Our
Life,” of which many volumes relating to a later period of our
Redeemer’s mortal life have already been published out of their
natural order. The remaining portions of the Public Life of Our
Lord are treated in further volumes which are on the eve of publica-
tion. And then the Divine Infancy and the Hidden Life, and at the
end the Sacred Passion. Many devout souls must mingle their prayers
that God may spare His servant to finish this great work.

“The Advertiser's Guardian,” by Louis Collins (London: 4 Wine
Office Court), contains a vast amount of curious and valuable infor-
mation about the art of advertising in all its branches, and many
particulars about the advertisement charges of various magazines and
newspapers. Many of the advertisements inserted in this book itself
are very interesting; and the layers of original matter which sepa-
rate the business pages are indeed very original though choke-full
of apt quotations.

As this is our May Number, we must make sure of mentioning the
new book about the Blessed Virgin by the Rev. F. Thaddeus, 0.S.F.,
“Mary Foreshadowed ; or, Considerations on the Types and Figures
of Our Blessed Lady in the Old Testament” (London: Washbourne).
It is a very attractive volume in every respect, and gives a new form
to thoughts that happily are old and very dear.

Messrs. Burns & Oates have published in a shilling pamphlet four
sermons preached at Farm-street, London, by the Rev. M. Gavin, 8.J.,
on “The Decay of Faith.” The four subjects specially treated are:
Indifference to Misbelief, Distrust of the Supernatural, Dangerous
Reading, and Mixed Marriages. These are subjects only too practical,
especially in England ; and Father Gavin has discussed them in avery
effective and impressive manner. Father Peter Gallwey’s Sermon at
the funeral of Mr. Charles Weld has also been published, and is inte-
resting and edifying in a very peculiar degree.

Meesers. Benziger of New York have published, in a neat pamphlet,
Mr. Maurice Egan’s excellent essay on ‘‘ The Theatre and Christian
Parents.” We shall have occasion to refer to this essay at another
time; and it will be also our pleasant duty to welcome his exquisite
little volume of “Songs and Sonnets” which prove the assistant editor
of the New York Freeman's Journal to be a poet of much refinement
and deep feeling.

The Rev. Emile Pichd, Superior of St. Vincent’s Patronage,
Lurgan, supplies in the form of a sixpenny pamphlet the Lecture
delivered recently for the benefit of that excellent institution by Mr.
Charles Russell, Q.C., M.P. In the counsels given to young people
with their lives before them, the temperance question could not be .
overlooked, and here is a testimony which we commend to the notice

278 Notes on New Books.

of our very interesting young friend, The League of the Cross Magazine.
“For several years of my life, when I was working very hard, and
when every energy was taxed to its utmost, I drank no alcoholic
stimulant, and, judging by experience, I have come to the conclusion
I can get more and better work out of myself when I abstain entirely
from intoxicants. For eight of the hardest working years of my life
I never touched a drop of any intoxicating liquor, and I am now con-
strained to confess that I never during all that time felt the least want
of it.” We suspect that this circumstance had itssharein the shaping
of a career about which an obliging interviewer in The Daily News
lately enlightened the inquisitive public.

Among the books which cannot be noticed till June, are Father
Goldie's “Sainte of Wessex and Wiltshire” (Burns & Oates), Rev.
Bernard Feeney’s “Home Duties and Home Difficulties” (James
Duffy & Sons), several most useful tracts and leaflets issued by the
Catholic Truth Society, Father Jenkins’ very interesting “Six Seasons
in our Prairies, and Six Weeks in our Rockeries,” and a magnificent
tome published by the eminent ecclesiastical firm of Pustet of Ratis-
bon and New York—the great collection of authentic indulgences in
the original Latin documents. The official editor, Father Joseph
Schneider, 8.J., died when the result of his long labours was printed
and ready to issue from the press,

‘We must end with one word of welcome (more hereafter) for the
very spirited pamphlet “We Catholics!’ We have no notion who
the author may be. Yet on second thoughts the omission of a
certain name beginning with M in a list of Catholic celebrities seems
ominous.

( 279 )

MARCELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

AUTHOR OF “KxsTER’s HISTORY,” “THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL,” “ELDERGOWAY,”
“(THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETC., HTC.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

For about a month after her establishment at Crane’s Castle and
formal meeting with her tenantry, Marcella was as happy as a bird.
Even that cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, the threatened
danger to Kilmartin, was not allowed to cast a shadow in her way.
She saw Bryan almost every day. Either he had a message from
his mother, begging her to come and spend a day and night at
Inisheen, or he wanted to tell her about some tenant~who was
deserving or undeserving of her attention, or he had thought of a
new flower which would grow well in her garden, or he must help
her to arrange a lot of books which he had bought for her, on her
library shelves. They spent many happy hours together, becoming
more and more necessary to each other’s existence till that day
seemed lost in which they had not met. Marcella was no longer
the thin fragile girl of the Liberties. The line of her oval cheek
had filled into a perfect curve, her dark eyes had got a laughing
expression, the carnations of health were blooming in her face as
she flitted about her castle and garden, ordering her affairs and
planning her improvements. In the evenings she devoted herself
to study. Her friends had not yet discovered how wofully igno-
rant she was. She would work in secret so that they might never
discover the full extent of that ignorance.

Taking counsel on this subject with her lady companion, she
was surprised to find, by degrees, how very little book education
it takes to make a lady. Having become assured through her own
observation, that an industrious young woman may easily, in the
leisure hours of a couple of years, acquire all and more than the
knowledge which ordinary girls gain during their years at school,
she became less anxious on the score of her deficiencies, only went
to work with a will

‘Vou. xnz., No 144. June, 1885. 2

280 Marcella Grace.

Her household management gave her plenty of occupation.
Determined to be a lady in every sense of the word, she provided
herself with books on the subject of nice household arrangement,
and when difficulties came in her way there was Mrs. Kilmartin to
be applied to. Having deliberately reduced her income within the
limits set ‘to it by her conscience she ordered her establishment
accordingly, greatly to the disgust and disappointment of “ The
O'Donovan ” (as Father Daly slyly called her chaperon) who
held that the three neat maids and one old butler, were a
ridiculously small staff of in-door servants for the maintenance of
the dignity of the ancient O’Kellys. On this subject Miss Julia
O’Flaherty agreed with Miss O’Donovan. It was true that the
ménage at Mount Ramshackle was now dependent for comfort on
one domestic of a somewhat rude description, but then it was
partly the glory of keeping trains of idle retainers that had helped
to bring her family to its present state of ignoble dependence.

“When we could do it, we did it,” said Miss Julia, as if that
settled the matter and cleared the O’Flahertys from all present or
future reproach.

“« But,” said Marcella, “I have no use for a train of servante.
Half of the castle is shut up, and Miss O’Donovan and I do not
often entertain company. We do not hunt, and at present we
are very comfortable as we are.”

She had nobler schemes for the use of her spare money than
could be included in the expenditure of an unnecessarily showy
establishment, But of this she said nothing.

“ Hunting isnot all selfish extravagance,” said Miss O'Donovan.
“When my dear father was alive he always kept the hounds, and
gave a great deal of employment by so doing.”

“So did papa,” said Miss O'Flaherty. “' Always, until his
affairs got into trouble.”

“I don’t object to hunting, except in excess,” said Marcella,
and then paused, reluctant to risk giving offence by explaining
what were the thoughts that came to her on this subject. To
Miss O'Donovan, whose affairs had not been directly affected by
the hunt, she was able to speak more openly when Miss O'Flaherty
had returned to Mount Ramshackle and the uninterrupted con-
templation of former greatness.

“Tt seems to me,” said Marcella, “that though people give
employment while they are hunting their prosperity to death, they
do on the whole very little good, considering the paralysis that
comes upon all their faculties for usefulness. after the play is

Marcella Grace, 281

played out and their prosperity is no more. Sport isa good thing,
but bankruptcy not so good. Where are the people who were
benefited by that excessive expenditure? To pay the mortgages
Mr. O'Flaherty put on his property from time to time, he is obliged
almost to starve, and he has not a penny to bestow on any one.
His tenants are rackrented, and the money goes to usurers. Look
at it as I will, I believe my own plan will prove the best. If I
part with my gold I shall hope to see something that I have bought
with it, drained lands, or well-built houses in which my people can
afford to live, or crops raised on improved seed, or flourishing
fisheries, or the working of cottage industries on my property. If
I live to see myself sitting impoverished in my home I shall at
least look out of my windows at a fairer prospect than lies before
‘them now.” :

To all of which Miss O'Donovan replied with a sigh that it
was a thousand pities Miss O'Kelly had fallen so young into the
hands of the Kilmartins.

“She has been caught by the radical wave, my dear,” she said
to Miss O'Flaherty afterwards. Miss O'Donovan read the papers
-& good deal, and was fond of a sounding phrase. “I feel sure sho
has a demooratio strain in her somewhere. All the blood in
her veins is not of the royal blue of the O’Kellys. However,
in my fallen estate I am obliged to be patient with her, and I must
say she is very kind and attentive, and aware of what is due to
me. I could not be more comfortable ; all my little luxuries pro-
vided for me, just as in my own dear home. And though I would
like a little more style——” &e., &e.

Miss O’Flaherty, who, since she was no longer an heiress pre-

-sumptive, had become less unaccommodating in her views and ways
than formerly, proved by her frequent visits that the comforts to
be enjoyed within Crane’s Castle under Marcella’s management
weighed with her, also, against the wrongheadedness of the

-chatelaine.

Mr. O’Flaherty, too, soon showed a keen appreciation of Miss

“O'Kelly 's charms as a hostesa, and would often drive across country
in his shabby little gig (all that remained of the various equipages
that had used to roll in and out of the now lop-sided gates of
Mount Ramshackle), to pay his respects to the lady of Distresna.
As he went he would muse on the advantage to him and of course
to her and the country at large, which would result from a union

-of the houses of O’Flaherty and O’Kelly. It was evident that
this girl had a great notion of making those who lived with her

-. 989 Marcella Grace.

comfortable, but she was lamentably wanting in perception of
what was expected of her as the representative of an ancient and
distinguished, not to say royal family. All this he could teach her.
No one was better fitted for such a task than himeelf. Then how
pleasant it would be of an evening to see such a sweet young face-
smiling at him through the steam of innumerable glasses of punch,
besides the comfort to his mind of knowing that dear Julia would
have a companion at home when he was abroad on unavoidable
business or pleasure.

All things considered he thought it would work very well, and:
so, persistently but cautiously (for the girl had evidently a will of
her own), laid plans for the prosecution of his suit.

He was not the only gentleman of the county who discovered
that the lady of Distresna would make a desirable helpmate. The
rumour that Mrs. O’Kelly’s heiress was a furious radical woman who-
had spoken on platforms about woman’s rights, and walked about
the country in a jacket like a man’s, and with a shillelagh in her
hand, ceased to obtain credit. The gilded youth of Connaught
having caught glimpses of her blooming face whirling past on the
mountain roads on a car, or having lingered for a sight of her
coming out of the mountain chapel on Sundays in her white frock
and gipsy bonnet, began to blame the women of their families for
neglecting to make closer acquaintance with her. By-and-by she
began to receive frequent visits from them, and to find herself
overwhelmed with invitations to ride, fish, hunt, and dine in the
society of her compeers in the county. And Marcella, being
no way disinclined for good neighbourship, did a little of all that
was required of her, when she could manage to find time. It
was part of her dream of usefulness to gain as much as possible-
of the sympathy of all classes, but she laughed in her heart when:
the “ O'Donovan ” would point out to her that this or that gentle-
man had designs on her hand.

“I dare say they all think me a very bad manager, and would:
like to put me to rights,” she said, laughing and ignoring all the
ardent looks and tender words which she could not but know were-
a tribute to her personal attractions. ““ However, I am in love with.
my own position at present, and mean to keep it.”

Nevertheless she was pleased to see that her eyes had grown.
bright, and that there were tints of the rose coming and going
under them in her rounded cheeks. She chose herself pretty
dresses and wore them with grace. Why should she not try to be
as beautiful as she could in one pair of eyes which were often

Marcella Grace. 288-.-

turned on her with au expression she could not read, but which
always made her heart beat faster. In her quiet leisure moments,
shut in her own room, or sitting in a rocky chair hidden among
the cliffs, she would ponder the old subject of wonderment
as to what that danger could be which lurked round the foot-
steps of Bryan Kilmartin. At such times she would take out
the ring which she always wore round her neck, look at it and
finger it long, and live over again the night when she had sheltered
and shielded him from she knew not what—should she ever
know from what? She had reason to think that Kilmartin had
never suspected her identity with the girl of the Liberties who
had saved him. On more than one occasion he had hinted to her
of probable trouble for him in the future, in consequence of his-
own rash action in the past, but neither by word nor look of his could
she guess that he knew of any bond that had existed between them
before he had met her that night at the entrance to the Patrick's.
Hall.

And in the meantime Kilmartin was well aware that, in spite
of his resolution to spare the woman he loved the misery of being
connected with him in his coming trial, he had again and again
conveyed to Marcella the forcible assurance that he loved her.
He could not see her without betraying in a hundred ways the
secret which ought never to be told. He admitted to himself pain-
fully that he ought to rise up out of this insane dream of im-
possible happiness which had taken him on the very verge of the-
tragedy of his life, turn his back upon her home and his
home, and determine to see her no more. So serene, so happy
as she was with her projects and her people, why could he not
leave her among them in peace, removing himself and the shadow
of his misfortunes out of the sunshine on her pathP She might
be grieved and surprised for a time at his hasty cutting of the
tie with which he felt he had already bound her; he was not
unselfish enough to hope that she would feel no regret ; but, after
a little interval, would she not thank him for his action, and arrive
at a clear understanding of what it meant?

Distracted with these thoughts he yet waited from day to day,
putting off the difficult moment; till at last it was suddenly made
known to him that circumstances were about to lift him out of
the danger of doing a cruel wrong in snatching at a joy, which, at
his touch, must instantly and inevitably link itself with misery
for another.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BOLT FALLS.

, Tr was a brilliant summer night: a round golden moon had risen
“out of the Atlantic and burned its pale lamp high up in the dark
heavens over Crane’s Castle, which, with the surrounding bogs and
mountains, had grown weird and ghostly under the yellow-green
light lying upon its silent face like a spell of enchantment.

Marcella had entertained a dinner party that evening, and her
guests were gone. Bryan Kilmartin had been invited, but had
not come. It sometimes happened that having declined an invita-
tion to a company dinner Bryan would arrive just as the last of
the diners had departed, and remain an hour chatting with Mar-
-cella and Miss O'Donovan. He had been out walking and had
looked in just to make sure that Miss O’Donovan was not displeased
with him for declining to appear at table. He had brought a
“book, a branch of heather with a particularly lovely bloom, or news
-of somebody who was sick or hungry, or a message from his
mother. Such visits included about the happiest hours of Mar-
cella’s at present delightful existence.

But on this particular night he had not come. Marcella
lingered in the hall in her white evening dress, and at last stepped
out of the ponderous old hall door with its pillars of black Galway
marble, and down the wide steps flanked by open urns also of black
marble, the basins of which she had found, on her coming to the
place, overflowing with rain and slime, and had filled with the
splendour of blooming azaleas,

There were several things in her mind which she wanted to
say to Kilmartin, and above all things she was eager to know that
he was safe. She had had a painful dream the night before, in
which he and she were again in the old house in Weaver’s-square
together and his enemies had broken open the closet door and
killed him before her eyes. Looking steadily through the faint
sallow light across field, bush, and stream, to the rocky road above
the sea, she saw no moving thing; then turned her tired eyes in
the other direction, and where the light was most intense upon one
spot between herself and some low wet reefs on the shore, she espied
a dark object fluttering towards her. At first she took it to be one
of those wide-winged cranes from which the Castle took its name,

Harcella Grace. 885

and which haunted about the marshy places around it and the bits
of low-lying beach between the cliffs in front of it. However
she soon perceived that this was no bird, but the figure of a man
running with his head down, ducking into all the shadowy places
as if to hide himself even from the eye of the moon, and growing
larger and more distinct to her vision each time he of necessity
darted across an open track of light.

Mechanically she hurried in the direction of the flying figure,
and in the shadow of a clump of thorn bushes close to where
her private grounds adjoined a reeking marsh, reflecting the
moonlight in a hundred pools, she came face to face with Mike of
the mountains, who stopped running when he saw her, and flung
himeelf panting on the ground at her feet.

“Oh, Miss, it’s you. Sure I thought it was the banshee, an’
all was no use, Where’s himsel’P Tell him for the love o' God
to run for his life. The polis is afther him!”

“« Himsel’” meant Kilmartin, as Marcella knew.

“The police! Are you mad?” cried Marcella, in a tone of
ridicule, but her heart grew cold and her limbs trembled.

“Sorra mad, my lady. I heard it all, an’ I ran like a hare.
Bad scran to the bit o’ me that isn’t eyes and ears since I knew
there was somethin’ comin’ on him. He isn’t at Inisheen, They
said he had gone for a walk, an’ was maybe here. The polis ’ll
be down on him in the middle o’ the night, an’ intend for to take
him in his bed.”

Mareella put her hand to her head and struggled for presence
of mind. That night in the Liberties was vividly before her like
& bad dream of which this was the reading. Yot her common
sense told her she should not act on such wild information without
knowing what it meant.

“Stand up, Mike, and look at me. What can the police want
with Mr. Kilmartin P”

“They want him for the murder of Misther Gerald Ffrench
Font. An’ sure he niver did the like. An’ if he did, wasn’t it
the widow and the orphan he was doin’ it for?” said Mike,
doggedly. ‘An’ thim that did it themsel’s anyway has informed
on him and set the polis afther him. An’ it’s hanged he'll be if
he doesn’t fly for his life!”

Marcella grasped a friendly branch of the thorn-tree and
steadied herself. She must not die, or swoon, or fall, as any fool
might do, while there was time to act.

“Listen to me, Mike. I shall never forget this goodness of

286 Marcella Grace.

yours. Fly off now and search for Mr. Kilmartin along the sea-
shore. Do not rest till you overtake him if he is there. I
will go myself to Inisheen. One of us may find him. Now,
lose no time. Off with you.”

Mike needed no second bidding, and the next instant was out
of sight.

Then Marcella cleared the space between her and the house
almost as the bird flies. In the hall she turned back and looked
in at the drawing-room door.

“I am going to my room, Miss O'Donovan,” she said, in her
usual tones. “ Good-night.”

In her own room she put on a long waterproof coat which
covered her from chin to heel, and threw a dark shawl over her
head.

“Tf anyone meets me on the road even at this hour, I shall be
taken for a countrywoman,” she reflected, and passed swiftly
down stairs, prepared to account for her conduct if any person
should meet her. But she saw no one till she got clear across the
fields at the back of the house and out by short cuts on the little-
frequented highroad that led to Inisheen.

Then she ran as she had never run before, and as she could
not have believed it in her power torun, The ground flew from
under her feet, and yet it seemed to her that years must have.
passed before she stepped into the boat and began to paddle herself
across the lake. Fortunately the broad deep shadow of the moun-
tain was cast upon the water by the moonlight, so that she was.
not likely to be seen, even if the family in the little cottage above
the shore, who kept Bryan’s horses and looked after his boat, had
not been sound asleep since nine o’clock.

She reached the island, and, creeping round the house in the
shadows peered in at the windows. She must, if possible, see
Bryan alone and escape observation from every eye buthis. Through
a chink in Mrs. Kilmartin’s shutter she saw the mother reading in
her own room where she had retired for the night. There were
lights also in the servants’ bed-room windows. The drawing-room
windows were open, so was the hall-door, but no trace of the
master was to be seen. What if he were rambling across the
hills and were to meet his pursuers, face to face, unwarned? She
hurried wildly round the little lawns, and among the flower-beds.
and furze bushes.

“Bryan, Bryan! O God he is not here!” broke from her
in tones that came unmistakably from the depths of her heart.
And Kilmartin heard her.

Marcella Grace. 287

The sound came to him like a whisper of the wind before he
saw her or heard her step, and strangely enough the voice did not
seem to him like that of the young mistress of Crane's Castle. Its
vibrating accent of tribulation carried him back, startled, to the
Liberties of Dublin, and when the slight figure wrapped in dark
draperies, and the pale face gleaming out of the folds of the loose
shawl passed him the next minute, he believed that it was the girl
of the Liberties who had appeared before him.

He stepped out of the shadows that had hidden him, and said :

“ Does anyone want meP Did I hear my name?”

Then Marcella turned and he recognised her. “ Miss O'Kelly,
Marcella!” he exclaimed, while the tone and the words still
in his ear, and which must have been hers, thrilled again gladly
through his memory.

“I have come to tell you something,” she said in a whisper.
“You must fly from this place at once, and get to Queenstown by
to-morrow. You must sail for America. You have not a moment
to lose.”

“Why?” said Kilmartin, calmly, looking at her eager face
raised to his in complete unconsciousness of self. He was thinking
not so much of this crisis of his danger as of the delightful though
-deplorable assurance that he was beloved by her.

“ Because—my God, how am I to say itP Because the police
will be here directly searching for you. There is some terrible
mistake. They are going to seize you for murder. And they must
“not do it.”

“But they must do it,” he said, in a tone of quiet sadness and
without stirring an inch. “I have no intention of flying like a
man conscious of guilt. This is a misfortune that must be met in
the face.”

“No, no, it need not,” said Marcella, imploringly. “ If enemies
have made a case against you, why need you give yourself into
their hands?”

“Has Mike told you soP I dare say he has his news from
good authority, but I have long known all this without his warn-
ings. I have been well aware that a case was being made up
against me, and I have stood my ground. What would life be
worth to an exiled man who knew himself to be remembered in
his own country as a criminal who had fled from justice? So I
have chosen to stay in my place, and this moment does not find me
sanprepared.”

Marcella, listening, had grown cold to the heart... She had no

288 Marcella Grace.

admiration at that moment for his courage, felt no delight in his
high resolution. Woman-like she would save him at any cost. A
slight breeze stirred the leaves near them, and with a start and a
terrified glance towards the leke, she put her hand on his arm and
drew him deeper behind the screen of the trees.

Kilmartin could then hardly restrain his great longing to take
the bold little hand, so strong in its eagerness to protect, and hold it
fast in his own, but he controlled the desire as an impulee of mad-
ness. How should a man, about to be seized for murder, dare to
speak of love toa woman? Let him be brave, in this as well as
in that which was less difficult. Without any noticeable change
in his manner, he said to her:

“As I live under suspicion I prefer to stand my trial. I
want’to explain this to you while I still have time. To fly would
be in my eyes equal to a confession of guilt. To submit to
trial means, let us hope, to be cleared from the shadow of crime
and disgrace. Could any friend ”—his voice broke a little, “ could
you wish to see me dishonoured, even if safe P”

A moan broke from Marcella, and she covered her face with
her hands; then suddenly raised eyes again full of burning pain.

“You are too brave, too bold,” she said, “ and you exaggerate.

* Dishonour or disgrace could not touch you, It is utterly impossible.
Time will clear up this mystery whatever it may be. No man is
bound to act as you are doing. Oh, for God’s sake, for ”

She could not say “for my sake!” though the appeal was
almost on her lips. He seemed, to catch the words though they
were not spoken, and yet it was only her peculiar gesture as
she turned away a moment with an impulse of dignity that
supplied them to him. As she did so the impetuous motion
of her hand, the swift proud turn of her head struck him strangely,
and he cried :

“Heavens, how you bring another scene before me!”

“Yes,” she answered, suddenly aware that it might now be
better if all that had ever passed between them were clearly
understood. Was not her first interview with him a part of the
drama that wes now being enacted? She paused, dismayed,
and doubtful of how to reveal what she felt she ought to make
known. Then, before he had time to speak further, she asked
rapidly :

“What is the chief evidence? Who are the false witnesses
against you P”

Marcella Grace. 289

“I suspect the principal will be informers, the creatures of a
debased Fenianism which has sworn my destruction as a seceder
from its ranks. Unfortunately there is some circumstantial
evidence against me, and everything will depend, I imagine
on the weakness or strength of that. There exists one person
whose testimony—if she can be found, and should be obliged to
give evidence against me—would be more damaging than all the
rest, and might ruin me ”

“ Who is she?” asked Marcella, in an eager whisper.

Kilmartin passed his hand over his eyes and forehead before
he looked again at her white face, upraised as if out of a consuming
flame of anguish and tenderness.

“She is the girl whom I have so often told you you resembled,
whom you look like now ; but she had only known mean hour and
could not feel for me like this. She saved me once ”

““ And now she would save you again. Oh, how strangely you
have known me and yet not known me! It was I who opened
the door to you that night, I who sent you out again when
the danger was past. Look at this ring and see if I do not
speak the truth! I have not spoken before, because—because I
had no right to know your secrets, but now that this moment
has come, I must tell you whatI am. Marcella Grace was the
girl who sheltered you in the Liberties. If she had stayed
in her poverty, would never have borne witness against you,
not if they had killed her. Do you think she is likely to betray
you now?”

She stopped, choked with her passionate utterance. A great
joy at the fact that she held the key of the case against him in
her own tightly clenched hand had come to her vividly across
the misery of her fear for him ; and as Kilmartin looked at her
face suddenly illuminated with smiles, the strangeness of her
communication was almost overlooked by him in the peculiar
feeling with which he realised what her position had been
towards him from the first moment of their meeting. His mind
could not now rest on details; he only perceived how her extra-
ordinary statement, bound her more and more closely to himself.
But in the same moment he decided that he would not take
advantage of her pity, given so freely to him from first to last.
To open his own heart to her now would be to carry hers with
him into that prison of which he hated to think.

After a few moments of silence during which he struggled for
mastery over his will, he said qui-tly:

290 Marcella Grace.

“This is a strange revelation, and yet it does not surprise me as
‘much as it ought. You have always been associated in my mind
with my first benefactress. Only for the impossibility as it
seemed to me——”

“Yet it was all so simple,” broke in Marcella. “Mrs.
“O'Kelly discovered me only a few days after—after that night.
She did not want people to know in what scenes she had found me.
Then both she and my father died, and I was transported here, as
you know. It has all been extraordinary, but has happened as
naturally as could be. And the only matter it makes now is that
it is I who hold that link in the false evidence which cowards are
patching up against you. And they will never trace me here, and
I will never speak.”

“I trust you may not be called upon,” he said, “we will hope
it may be so. And now let me ask you one question. Has no
doubt of my part in that night’s transaction never crossed your
‘mind? How do you know that I am free from guilt, that I was
not bloodstained when I came to you like a thief in the dark ?”

“How do I know the sun shines? How do I know that God
is good? Why do you ask me so tormenting a question? I saw
you as you were that night, I took you to be what you are. And
why; oh why will you not now do as you then did P”

“That is, fly? Because I will not repeat the mistake I then
fell into. It seemed right and necessary then. It would be
cowardice and folly now. I will not vex your ears with the story
here. The world and you will know it soon enough.”

“I do not want to hear it,” said Marcella, “I only know one
shideous fact ; that miscreants have got you into the toils of their
vengeance and are trying to destroy you ”

“Hush! hush! And so you have come all this way,” he said,
his voice softening in spite of himself as he looked at her piteous
“white face and disordered locks ; “ you have travelled the road at
night to put yourself again between me and harm. Oh, my dear,
_you ought not to have done it. Am I not a man and able to face
my trial — P”

Here a faint sound made Marcella look round and utter a quick

-ery. Figures could be seen on the opposite shore, pushing the boat

out upon the lake.

“They are coming,” she said, hoarsely, “they are coming.”
She fell on her knees and bent her face almost to his feet. “If
you have no pity for yourself,” she moaned, “ have pity on your
-mother—have pity on me —— ”

Marcetta Grace. 291

‘Then he could bear it no longer. He lifted her in his arms
and hid her face on his breast.

“Oh, my darling!” he said, “ you ought to have let me go
without this. I love you, Marcella, I love you. But how can I
dare to speak to you? How can a man under a charge for mur-
der presume to ask a woman to be his wifeP As yet I have com-
mitted no crime.” If I take your promise now I fear I shall
indeed be criminal.”

“Then you shall be criminal,” she said, raising her head,
and lowering it again, with tears, “ for you cannot refuse to take
what I insist on giving to you.”

Her excitement was calmed now that she could hold his
hand and feel that he was hers, to shield, to battle for, to live or
die for. The prison walls could not entirely shut out her who had
aright to be near him, as a mother, almost as a wife has a right.
Bhe should be close to him in whatever extremity he might be
reduced to. Pain or sorrow, mystery or death, could not hinder
her from knowing that she belonged to him.

A few more eager words and then as they stood there hand and
hand, with cruel separation, perhaps death, drawing nearer every
instant to place an inevitable bar between them, the thoughts of both
hurried along too painfully for further utterance. Kilmartin kissed
and stroked dumbly the brave, bowed head, and held fast the small
strong hand whose fingers were interlaced with his as if they would
never let go in time or eternity. It was their one sacred moment
overlooked by none of the hard and pitiless eyes which would
presently open upon them and stare at their unhappiness. Their
joy in each other and the surpassing anguish of their misfortune
were both their own, a secret between themselves—only while
a boat was crossing the lake under the shadow of yonder mountain
and no longer. To-morrow they should stand apart before the
world, with the glare of ite cruel light in their separate eyes, and
the howl of its ready execration in their ears which could be then
no longer soothed by each other's voices.

The sound of steps and voices could now be heard quite near,
and Kilmartin said softly :

“Dear love, we must go. If you love me, do not unman me.
Where is your courage? Is this my Joan of Arc who confronted
danger for me when I was no more to her than a stranger out of
the streets

Marcella answered nothing except by a tighter clasp of the
hand she held, but raising her head mechanically, began tas move

Vor. xi, No. 144.

292 Marcella Grace.

by his side in the direction of the voices, like a woman walking in
her sleep. Midway between the house and the rocks they met the
party of police who, stepping forward when they saw him, arrested
Bryan Kilmartin in the Queen’s name for the murder of Gerald
Ffrench Font, on the 10th of January,,in Dublin streets.

Kilmartin received them as calmly as he should have done if
they had come to confer a title on him.

“TI will give you no trouble, my men,” he said, “ but I must
ask you not to alarm a delicate lady who is within doors ;” he
choked over the words “ my mother.”

“Never fear, Misther Bryan,” said one of the local police who
had accompanied the group from Dublin. “ We'll be as quiet as
mice. And I ask your pardon, sir, for bein’ mixed up with this
disgraceful business. Of course we all know it’s a mistake.”

“Thank you, sergeant. It’s rather an awkward mistake for
me,” said Bryan, quietly, as having begged Marcella to go before
him into the house, he saw her pass over the threshold. “ Now, if
you walk about here while I make a few slight arrangements, I
will join you again immediately. You needn’t be afraid to lose
sight of me. I could have kept out of your way if I had wished,”
he added to the men, who remained standing outside the house
while he went in. He knocked at his mother’s bedroom door,
entered, and after a few minutes came out again, and passed to
his own apartment. Returning quickly, equipped for a journey, he
went back to the drawingroom where Marcella stood motionless
waiting for him.

“My mother only knows I am called to Dublin on sudden
business. I am forced to leave the rest to you,” he said, trying
to speak with an air of good cheer; and then they made their
farewell, holding each other's hands and looking in each other's
eyes across the bitter gulf that had already divided them.

CHAPTER XVI.
GOD Is Goop.

He had besought her not to come with him even to the door, and
she had obeyed him and remained on the spot where he had left
her, and where she had sunk on her knees, until a faint splash
caught by her quick ear told her they had left the island. Then,
wrapped in her dark cloak, she stole out and watched the boat to

Marcella Grace. 298

the opposite shore, and strained her eyes to see the last of the
moving figures that reached the other side.

After all that she went back into the house and softly closed
and barred the door, and swathing herself in her wraps, lay her
length on her face on Mrs. Kilmartin’s sofa. Now that action was
no longer possible, she was between, fatigue and sorrow, like a per-
son drugged and unable longer to distinguish the sharp outlines of
the horrors that pressed around her. Only one figure was distinctly
present to her among the confused images of her brain—the figure
of Bryan Kilmartin travelling along the road to Dublin, moving
ever towards a prison, towards dishonour, perhaps towards death.
Sometimes starting out of this haunted stupor she walked about
the room as if to keep pace with that terrible movement of his
which she could not stop, now and again standing still to look at
‘a. small likeness of him on the wall, made long ago (when she was a
little half-vagrant child running to the nuns’ school in the Liber-
ties), the ardent countenance of a youth who knew no guile, the
‘spirited face of thelad who had rushed, brave of soul, to drill for a
dream warfare in the silence of the lonely glen. Or she would handle
reverently the books in which his name was written, or gaze long at
his old cremona hanging mute against the wall, kissing humbly the
bow with which his fingers had coaxed the music out of its heart,
and out of her heart too. The next hour was spent on her knees
beseeching heaven for him, and between the gusts of her prayer
her spirit looked back through the storm-clouds of the present to
the first beginnings of her connection with him, to the moment
when she had looked in his face appealing to her for service, and
been allowed to feel that in her poverty and weakness she could
be useful to his manhood. She remembered the strange sacred
yearning with which she had after that looked on him almost as
her child because of her service rendered to him and the convic-
tion she had felt that he would again require help at her hands.
What help could she give him now, except to be true to him, still
to guard skilfully the secret she had kept for him all these months,
to share the discredit which half, if not all the world would now
heap on him, and to sweeten for him, as far as a woman can by her
love and fidelity, the suffering and degradation which a mysterious
Providence appeared to have decreed that he should endure?

So the night passed, and in the dewy air of the dawn, while
the black mountains were turning purple, and the gold stars white,
and the still lake was stirring in little freshets of waves round the
island, she stole noiselessly out of the house, and bathed ‘her face

204 Marcella Grace.

in the cool water, and smoothed her disordered locks, and sat om
the rocks hoping that the morning breeze would remove some of
the traces of the night’s agony, so that the mere sight of her might
not scare the poor mother who had yet to learn from her lips in
what direful ways the feet of a beloved son were set. With the
rising of the sun an accession of courage came to her. An emer-
gency was at hand, and she had got to meet it. She would try to
behave like a creature with faith and purpose, faith in God andin
him, purpose to rescue him from the darkness that had momentarily
covered him. As soon as the servants were stirring in the house
she returned there and replied calmly to the surprised looks and
words of the old housekeeper.

“Trouble has come on Mr. Bryan, Bridget, and I am here to
tell his mother about it. He is gone to Dublin to deal with his
enemies. You will know more of it by-and-by. Now take the
mistress her breakfast, and hint nothing to her till she has had it.
Afterwards I will go to her.”

With frightened looks the woman did her bidding, and an hour
later she nerved herself for a difficult task which must be done
before news should come flying at random from some outer
quarter.

Mrs. Kilmartin wes dressed and resting in her easy chair at the
open window before making the effort of moving into the drawing-
room, when her door opened and Marcella appeared.

“My dear, what a delightfully early visit. But how tired
and agitated you look. You are wearing yourself out with these
lucky tenants of yours.”

Marcella took her hand and kissed it, a homage she was fond
of paying to Bryan’s mother, and then dropped on her knees beside
her, still holding the invalid’s frail hand.

“Mother,” she said, softly, “will you have me? Bryan has
asked me to be his wife.”

“Will I have you? My very dear one! Have I not been
longing and praying for this? Thank heaven for giving my boy
the desires of his heart!” and Mrs. Kilmartin folded the girl close
to her.

Marcella stifled a hysterical cry, and hiding her face on the
mother’s neck, tried to poise the sword with which she was to
pierce the tender breast on which she leaned. But she could not
do it.

“Mother,” she began, again commanding her voice with a
strong effort. “I will be very good to him, and if everhe is in

Marcella Grace. 205

trouble I will cling to him the more ; and people do get into trouble
in this world, mother; sometimes the best and noblest get the
worst of it.”

The suspicion of a sob caught her breath, and with quick
alarm Mrs. Kilmartin changed her position and looked her in the

face.

“You and I have got to be good to him, and brave for him,
mother, for he is in trouble—our Bryan is in trouble.”

Mrs. Kilmartin relaxed her hold of the girl, and leaned back
in her chair, pallid and panting.

“ Bryan in trouble! What is it? Good God! have they shot
him? My boy, my only son !”

The sight of her fear and agony strengthened Marcella, who
“stood up and said firmly : .

“Not so bad as that, mother. He is alive and well. But there
is some horrid mistake, or some spite of an enemy at work. Some-
body has implicated him in the shooting of Mr. Ffont last winter.
Of course it is nonsense, and everybody will see that is so. I was
very wrong to tell you in such a doleful manner. I have frightened
‘you to death. Come, dear little mother, if you and I are not brave
what will people say? We will laugh at the whole thing. We
will show them what fools they have made of themselves ——”

To all of which Mrs. Kilmartin listened with fixed dreadful
eyes, and only answered :

“ Where is he P”

“I do not exactly know where he is this moment. He went
away quite cheerfully last night. Come mother, look up. Do not
look like that or you will kill me—me who am going to be his
wife when he comes back.”

“He was arrested P”

“But by his own will and consent. He wae warned and
he would not go. He would rather prove his innocence before the
world.”

Mrs. Kilmartin did not stir.

“Think what a hero he will be when he comes back, mother.
Everybody will do honour to a man who has passed through such
a trouble unhurt. His life will be inquired into, his virtues will
be known, his good deeds done in secret will come to light. I
declare when I think of it—I could be glad that this thing has
happened—that the world may know what a man is Bryan Kil-
amartin "—

Then suddenly breaking down:

296 Marcella Grace.

-“ Oh, Bryan, oh my love, my love!” she wailed, and sinking
on her knees again, with her face in Mre. Kilmartin’s lap, let loose
the floods of her weeping ; and the two women wept and clung
together till both were exhausted.

The poor little mother had at last to be carried back to her bedand
left in the darkened room unable to speak more, only lifting her
tired eyes now and then to the crucifix Marcella had held to her
lips, and then hung on the wall where she could seeit. And after
that Marcella had to go through her day, without possibility of
news, or opportunity for action of any kind, or the chance of any
event happening to break the terrible monotony of the long, cruel,
smiling, summer hours.

She had at least leisure to write to Bryan, comforting him as
to his mother, and saying all that her love and compassion could
find words to express, but when the letter was written she
remembered that she did not know to what prison he had been
taken, and must wait for tidings.

Towards evening the boat was seen crossing the lake, and
hurrying down to the rocks, she met Father Daly.

“God is good, my child !” was the priest’s greeting, and in his
eyes she saw that he knew all. ‘‘ We know that God is good.”

Marecella’s strength was spent, she tried to speak, but said
nothing.

“ And strong,” went on Father Daly. “He is good and strong,
stronger than prisons and falsehoods. Now, my child, you will
say ‘yes,’ whether you feel it or not.”

“Yes,” said the girl, faintly.

“ And I won't allow those black stains round your eyes. Eheul
child, it would frighten the very crows to look at you. We have
all a piece of work before us, and, if you refuse your share, who's.
going to step into your shoes? Not another soul in the world
could fill your place beside Bryan Kilmartin.”

“No one shall get the chanoe,” said Marcella, firmly.

e That's the girl I believed you to be. And how is the poor-
little mother taking it? I will go and havea talk with her first,
and then you and I will lay our heads together over this matter.
It will be found that Bryan was not altogether unprepared for this.
crisis, and you will see that things will go well.”

And then Marcella walked the paths outside while the priest
went in and helped the mother to wrestle with her anguish, while-
the slow-coming night wore on, and as the moonlight began to.
shine, the girl lived over again the scene of last night, now

The Island of Sainta and Scholara. 297

extracting the sweetness from the agony and hiving it in her
heart of hearts, now losing all sense of it in her overwhelming
tribulation.

In spite of his brave assured words, and of her own determina-
tion to hope, she felt a lurking fear that he himself had believed a
plausible case had been made up against him.

And as the stars quickened and throbbed above her head, each
like a fiery point of pain, she thought of how at this moment the
news’of the arrest of Bryan Kilmartin was flying from mouth to
mouth in Dublin streets, and of how the newspaper vendors were
yelling the tidings through the thoroughfares, and up and down
the lanes, and past the old house in Weaver’s-square where she
had harboured him on that most blessed yet most terrible night
which had first brought her life into contact with his, and at the
same time had projected this horrible shadow of misfortune upon
his future.

THE ISLAND OF SAINTS AND SCHOLARS.

IHE Irish land, the Irish land,
Our own dear mother Isle,
Her varied scene, her emerald green,
Her mingled tear and smile,
Have furnished themes for countless songs
On many a tuneful lyre,
While the ead story of her wrongs
Has waked a tiercer fire.

‘Scarce free to live, scarce free to love,
‘Her poets through the night,

Each with his little torchlight strove
Her gloomy path to light;

‘Tho harpa that sang “ Sweet Innisfail,”
Had minor chords I ween,

And hid love’s treason ‘neath the veil
Of their “' Dark Rosaleen.”

The Irish race, the Irish race—
Look back from age to age,

And you will find its glorious trace
On History's every page ;

In battlefield, in hall of state,
In peaceful walks of fame,

‘With pon or chisel—overywhere,
‘You'll meet an Irish name.

298

The Island of Saints and Scholars.

And yet, strange fate! their native land,
So richly blessed by Hoaven,

‘Was forced to banish from her strand
The eons that God had given.

And those, who love as none can say
The country of their birth,

Aro pilgrims in the world to-day,
Tho exiles of the earth !

The Irish Church, the Irish Church,
Since blessed Patrick came,

And bade the Druid-fires give place
To Faith’s undying flame—

‘The faithful Irish Church has stood,
‘Though fierce storms rose to try her,

As true to God, as true to
As Patrick could desire !

From the green Island of the West,
As from a source of light,
Went forth the Gospel m
‘That chased the old world’s night,
Nay, God’s good providence decreed
That o’er the world’s wide face
Her exiles atill should sow Faith’s seed—
An Apostolic race!
The Irish sainte, the Irish saints,
‘What chronicles were theirs,
What miracles, what charity
What ecstasies and prayers !
St. Patrick and St. Bridget,
8t. Brendan, Columkille,
St. Ita, Dympna, Malachy —
Their names are honoured atill.

Not in their native lale alone:
No European state
But owes to Irish sanctity,
A debt exceeding great;
Rome, Lucca and Tarentum,
Beeangon, Mechlin, Hy,
To Irish Apostolic men
Send up a filial cry,

The Irish priest, the Irish priest,
O lcved and honoured name !

At home or in the West, or East,
Still faithful, still the same:

Here, in the fever-tainted room,
Or famine's awful time,

Letting God's sunshine light the gloom
Routing despair and crime.

The Island of Saints and Scholars. 299

Abroad, where spreading prairie rolls,
Or by Australian brake,

Tending his fellow exiles’ soule—
An exile for their sake!

‘Lest time should loose or distance move
The links that bind to Rome,

Or (scarce leas acted bond) their love
For the old land at home.

Above the Britain of the South
The Englich banners play,

But Ireland and her Faith, thank God,
Exert supremer sway ;

Her sons are on its pastoral thrones,
For well Rome understands

Faith’s seed is never deeper sown
Than by true Irish hands,

And now another patriot priest®
Our Fatherland must spare,
The erozier of a mighty see
Is trusted to his care.
And Erin's exiles eagerly,
Across the waters wide,
Implore his coming speedily,
‘Their father and their guide.

And who more fitted for the task,
‘Than he whose studious youth
So loved to tread the dusky past,
A searcher after truth.
That he might clear our native Jand,
Our race, our church, our saints,
From calumny’s insulting brand,
Or ignorance’s taints.

Old Ireland's name is safe with him,
Her fame shall know no loss
In those wide regions far away,
Beneath the Southern Cross!
May countless blessings follow him
And mark his future way ;
Such is our prayer who feebly thus
‘Would many debts repay!
8. M.8.

The Most Bev, Dr. Moran, Archbishop of Sydney, in whose presence these
lines were recited, a Holy Crom Colloge, Clonlife, Jase 16th, 1984.

€800.)

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.
BY JOHN FALLON.

Parr VII.—Vistr ro THE Mosque or Corvova.

Tue railway from Seville runs along the valley of the Guadal-
quivir, and the noble river is in frequent view. A range of
mountains bounds the northern horizon, brown and dusky-as their
name imports, for this is the “ Sierra Moréna,” and “ Moréna” in
Spanish means brown.

Still let us guard against a false etymology. Long before the
Castilian language was spoken, far back in the early days of
heathen Rome, the “Sierra Moréna ” was “ Mons Marianus,” just
as the “ Guadiina” was “ flumen Anas”—as the “ Douro” was
the “Durius,” the “ Ebro,” the “Iberus,” and soon. The non-

. inventive Romans, practical-minded matter-of-fact men, like the
modern Anglo-Saxons, just mapped the names of hills, and towns,
and rivers,as they got them from their Punic or more remote Iberian
predecessors, with an odd blunder here and there to suit the difference
of pronunciation. Bo that “ Moréna,” all appropriate as it is, is
of much older pedigree than it seems, and probably of prehistoric
antiquity.

This “ Sierra Moréna,” to judge by the map, is fifty miles off ;
to judge by the eye, it seems quite near, so marvellously clear is
the air. Endless olive-groves spread along its base and up ite
sides, forming a woodland of strangely leaden hue.

Along the plain, as we advance, the Arcadian scene of horses
“treading out the corn again gladdens the view. On the way to
Granada I had noted them four and five abreast; but here I
reckoned as many as ten, cantering round a solitary man, who
guided them all in line with a single rope. Small wonder Anda-
Tusian steeds come to display rare action in paséo and parade, with
such magnificent exercise during their colt-hood !

As for the grain thus thrashed, it is gathered into great heaps,
and then left exposed night and day until it suits the convenience
of its owners to remove it; and this, without the least apparent
anxiety about possible showers, or filibustering crows. Showers
are manifestly out of the question, in this district, at this season ;
not that the skies are cloudless, thank heaven! but: the few

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 30n

iridescent clouds that are, seem ever soaring upwards, or poising in
mid-air for ornament only. But the rooks, and other grain-devour-
ing birds, what of them ? Why, I suppose each Andalusian might
say, as the dying marshal Espartéro said of his enemies, when
asked to forgive them: ‘“ Holy father, I have shot them all!” At.
all events, here they exist not.

Still the country is not without birds: several times to-day I
saw small flocks of a kind new to me, russet brown, slightly larger-
than thrushes, with wings streaked in black and white; but I sup-
pose they live on insects only. They would rise affrighted as the-
train glided past, and fly madly forwards to keep pace with it or
pass it out, as frightened birds are wont todo. And I saw more-
than one vulture rising lazily from the ground, then sailing away
majestically with almost motionless wings. Such is apparently
the ornithology of this district; the grain of the fields seems to
dread no felony from winged foes!

At intervals, off on the mountain-slopes, are villages, and castles.
domineering over them in feudal fashion. Some of those castles.
are modern, or at least well-preserved and inhabited ; others are-
manifest ruins, perched on scarped headlands, grim mementoes of
other days, each with its legend of fierce fight and foray, wild joy
and sorrow, if it could only tell the tale. All those castles, ancient
and modern, as also the villages that nestle under them, are of the
same dusky brown as the sierra itself.

You will scarcely believe me if I tell you that I distinctly
noticed two small tornadoes careering along the heights, scarcely
seeming to touch the earth, but expanding darkly upwards in cor--
nucopia form. These whirlpools of the atmosphere, engendered
by the fierce heat, seem to attract no attention here, and to be-
associated with no idea of injury. As regards the heat itself, my
small thermometer, placed in the coolest corner of the railway
carriage, marked many degrees over ninety, although the sunshine
was carefully excluded with blinds, and all the windows were open.
Yet the heat is not oppressive, the air is so dry ; and, what is more
remarkable, passing as we are through miles of tillage fields in
stubble, there is no dust. The freshness of early spring seems still
to linger in the land : the red earth is not yet baked to cinders, as it.
will be when the autumn tourist comes, and when nothing will retain
the look of vegetable life except a stray crop here and there, and
the never-failing hedge-rows of “cactus green and blue broad-
sworded aloes.” At present the dust is phenomenally absent from.
the field-sides, and locomotion is a downright pleasure.

302 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

Soon Cérdova, my destination, is reached, and the train is
-exchanged for a breezy omnibus, shaded with striped awning in
‘lieu of glass, and drawn by a stout team of mules, two at the
wheels, three leading abreast. Their scarlet tassels are intermixed.
with bells, as usual : and those bells, selected by some man of taste,
make not a bad concert as we trot along. Thus you enter the city
of the Caliphs!

. . . .

A short rest, an invigorating luncheon at the excellent
“Hotel Suisse,” a few directions from the hotel-manager, and,
like the carrier-pigeon for its home, off I start for the great
Mosque, just as if it and I were old acquaintances. A labyrinth
of streets intervenes, and the bump of locality is not mine;
but thanks to the marvellous sunshine and the deep shadows,
the problem is a simple one: you have only to keep to the streets
that are shaded on the same side and to the same extent, and you
are sure to go straight. Not that the observance of this rule is
absolutely easy: for instance, some of the streets are so narrow
that they are altogether shaded: others are ao tortuous that they
are shaded in every imaginable manner, varying from moment to
moment. But, on the whole, with a little attention you can steer
pretty straight, without hesitation, and without error.

And fortunate it is that it is so: for this is siesta hour, and
the houses are barred and bolted as if it were midnight, and
tthe streets as deserted as they will be then. I meet no one except
‘a muleteer, brown as his own hair, following his Indian file of
pannier-laden mules. To ask the way of him, in my mixture of
French and incipient Spanish, would be vain, and remember, I do
not attempt it. But let.me mention that, between his meditative
animals and me, there is a alight difference of opinion, or rather
competition for place ; for they, like me, are for “hugging” the
ahady sides of the narrow streets, and I, in jealous mood, think
‘those streets barely sufficient for myself, and relish not the thought
“of being crushed between their stiff panniers and the still more
wanyielding house-fronts. So a faithful umbrella, borne as sun-

+ ehade in Andalusia, does defensive duty here, the superior animal
easily wins the day, and the good-humoured muleteer salutes with
.a smile and a blessing, while your friend moves on rejoicing.

Thus navigating, without a word spoken, at length I reach
the great Mosque. It rises in front of me like a fortress, a bastille,
a Tower of London, anything except a house of prayer: for its
dark brown walls, immensely lofty, are capped with flame-shaped

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 308

battlements, and flanked with towers from interval to interval.
But the gate of entrance is a “ gate of pardon ”—note the charm-
ing name—and within is a court of oranges, far larger than at
Seville, and more imposing, with a wide and lofty colonnaded
cloister on three sides of it, the Mosque forming the fourth.

High above the court of oranges is a stately tower, but the
eye soon detects that it is built in the formal renaissance style of
the sixteenth century. The fact is, it is but a cold substitute for
the Moorish minaret, the pride of Cordova, that stood where it
stands till a hurricane laid it Jow—the same hurricane that so
miraculously spared the Giralda of Seville.

In the wide court of oranges not only there are orange trees,
tall and vigorous, with oranges still on them ; but citron-trees,
with their pale fruit looking rather dried and shrunk ; and even
a few palm-trees, graceful as ever, seemingly the lineal descendants.
of those which were transplanted here from ‘‘ holy Damascus”
more than eleven centuries ago.

In the midst of the court is also a trickling fountain, fed by
a Moorish aqueduct; but, at this silent hour, not a human being-
is at hand to remind one of the countless thousands that crowded
here for ablution in former days. The stillness of the place is:
overwhelming, and I involuntarily look back several times, to see-
that I am not followed ; it is only the echo of my own footsteps,
coming down from the lofty walls.

Human life reappears just inside the threshold of the Mosque,
in the form of aged mendicant women, who simply hold out the.
hand, saying: “ Por el amor de Dios, sefiorito!” (sefior{to is the
coaxing diminutive of sefior). If you give them a little, you are
more than rewarded, almost humiliated, by the fervour of their
thanks. If you prefer to refuse, you have only to say : “ Perdone-
usted, Hermana!” . . . (Forgive me, sister . . .) and passon without
another word.

But minor forms of humanity crop up within, less considerate-
and less easy to dispose of, in the shape of youthful street Arabs,
who follow like’ mosquitoes, offering their services as guides. I
had expressly come quite alone, depriving myself of the aid of the.
hotel courier, to have the pleasure of discovering things for myself ;
to be now victimised by those young scapegraces was not to be-
thought of ; but how to shake them off was the problem. Nothing
occurred to me but to dart straight away, looking neither
to right nor to left, but right before me like an official, till I
reached about the middle of the vast building. One by'one my

304 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

“ tormentors dropped off, with remarks not meant to be flattering,
“such as: “no es un viagéro . . . no es un caballéro . . .” (he is not
‘a traveller . . . he is not a gentleman... ). If anyone had
‘told me this morning that my first act, on reaching this longed-
for goal of my desires, would be to rush through it in this absurd
fashion, I should have had some difficulty in believing him; but
the French are right: ‘‘V'imprévu toujours arrive.” At all events
the simple stratagem was successful : I was left alone.

And now what a sight! A “hall of a thousand columns” is
truly the name for it. To north and south, to west and east, in
fact in every imaginable direction, marble pillars in long straight
lines form vistas of amazing perspective, of endless variety. Those
pillars have no plinths or pedestals, but are surmounted by capitals
which resemble the under-leaflets of a palm tree. From those
-capitals rise ehafts of ornamented masonry, on which the whole
vaulting of the apparently endless building seems to rest; while,
springing from them side-ways, from column to column, are open
arches of horse-shoe form, numerous beyond counting, and doing
duty like the flying buttresses of a Gothic cathedral.

The columns are fairly matched in height and thickness, but
most strangely varied in colour and quality. One is black, the
next is red, a third is of precious verde antique, a fourth of

-oriental jasper: in front is one of Egyptian porphyry, or dark
brown granite ; beside it is alabaster, white and translucent; and
so on. Such a mixture of nature’s marble wealth was never seen
before. The manner in which those columns are ranged is in
longitudinal naves from north to south, and transverse aisles from
east to west: of the former there are nineteen, of the latter there
are thirty-five; so that the vast interior of the building is like
a petrified grove, a forest of stone, the flying arches looking
quite lightsome and airy enough to keep up the resemblance, as
branches.

As for great spans, and great elevations, here they are not to
be thought of. The clear width of the longitudinal naves is
-scarcely more than twenty-two feet, that of the transverse aisles
barely exceeds eleven. From pavement to vaulting the total
height of the building does not appear more than thirty-six or
thirty-seven feet, and even this is perspectively halved by the
flying arches that intersect the view midway. The marble

- columns are only about eleven feet high, by some eighteen inches
in diameter ; and, as for likeness of material, it exists only amongst
their capitals. With such fabric has an area been covered almost

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 305

as vast as St. Peter's, and able to shelter an army of forty thousand
men, if drawn in battle array.

At present the stonework of arches and vaulting, throughout
the greater part of the building, is coated with plaster, and tinted
in dove colour and pale vermilion, in accordance with the fashion
prevalent in Africa. To picture those arches and vaults as they
-were in Moorish days, we should remember, for it is amply attested,
that each small cupola was a marvel of carved woodwork, as at the
Alhambra, and that the now flat surfaces were enriched with
-oriental stucco picked out with gold. Of course the gold is gone,
but faint traces of the stucco are visible in remote corners that
‘have as yet escaped the ruthless hand of “ restoration.”

And the records tell us that from those vaults were pendant
chandeliers of burnished brass—some put the number as high as
two hundred and fifty, with ten thousand lamps—so that in the
palmy days of Islamism those now bare walls must have shone
with a wealth of light and gold beyond all power of imagination
to picture.

Thus you walk through aisles and naves till you reach the
“western portion and its southernmost end ; here things change
completely. The bare plastered and tinted surfaces give way to a
traceried stonework of arches interwoven and interlaced, and
encrusted all over with gorgeous Byzantine mosaic. This mosaic
was the gift of an emperor of Constantinople to the first of the
Cordovan caliphs,* in the early part of the tenth century, and
specially stipulated for by treaty. As it stands, it is centuries
older than the oldest Gothic work in Christendom, and yet it
looks as if set up yesterday, and it glistens and is iridescent like
the scales of afreshly caught salmon. It merely represents, so far
-as I could observe, graceful arabesques and Cufic inscriptions along
the borders; and is all in subdued tints of pale violet and pearl-
coloured white; but it struck me, I know not why, over and over
-again, as absolutely the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

This was the “ Kiblah” of the great Mosque, to which the
‘faithful turned by way of looking towards Meccah. Here was the
“ Mihrab,” corresponding in some measure with the Holy of
‘Holies of a Hebrew temple. Here stood the resplendent “ mimbar,”

* The first of the Cordovan sultans who assumed the dignity of the
Caliphate was Abdurrahman II1., whose reign extended from A.p. 912-961. He
also assumed the surname of Annassir (defender of the faithful).—Does not the
double assumption remind you somewhat of Henry VIII.? But Annassir,
according to his light, was a truly good and great man, and probably the most
fortunate and prosperous sovereign of his age.

306 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

the pulpit from which the Imaum preached the Friday sermon.
Here was the gorgeous desk on which lay one of the four Korans
penned under the very eyes of Othman. And a shrine enriched wita
rarest gems, transcending the value of jewelled pulpit and Koran
and desk, enclosed a bone from the skeleton of Mahomet himself,
and a pilgrimage to this shrine was tantamount to one to Meccah.
Even yet the ancient’ pavement of white marble is here worn hollow
by the steps and knees of the faithful, who came here for ages in
myriads to worship and to pray. To this day, although the
Mosque has been converted to the uses of a Christian church for
more than six centuries, it is not rare to see a Moor from across
the straits praying and prostrating himself here as his fathers did
of old; and, not long since, the Emperor of Morocco’s brother
was seen performing the seven-fold round in humblest devotion,
bathed in tears, lamenting no doubt the vanished glories of his
race, and vainly beseeching Allah for their return.

The nave which leads to this Kiblah was manifestly the principal
one of the Mosque, and is two or three feet wider than the rest.
While I was standing in it, attempting to sketch the marvellous
outline of the mosaic work, the evening sun projected its shadows
right across it, which confirms what I have stated, and what the
Moorish chronicles amply bear out, that the naves run from north
to south, and therefore that the Mosque of Cordova, although profess-
ing to look towards Meceah, looks due south. This paradoxicul fact
almost summarises its history. Let me note a few facts and dates
concerning it:

‘When the Moors invaded Spain, in a.p. 711, they found here a
Vizigoth church, which previously had been a temple of Janus;
some of the columns of that temple still lie in the Court of Oranges.
With exemplary moderation for conquerors, they left to the Chris-
tians one-half of the Church, and appropriated the other half to
their own worship. In adjusting this half to the purpose of a
Mosque, in other words, so as to face towards Meccah, they made no
allowance for their change of longitude in coming here; such
science was not theirs. But they turned it, as their Mosques were
turned at home, that is to say, due south: because, although the
Spaniards called them Moors indiscriminately, those who settled
here were from Damascus, and the Damascene way of looking
towards Meccah is southwards.

The mighty dynasty of the Beni Ummeyéh, under whom the
conquest had been effected, and whose sway extended from the:
Himalayas to the Atlantic ocean, had their clans and court settled
at Damascus, so that the settlers here were of their kith and

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 307

kindred. And thus it happened that when this dynasty was sub-
verted in the east, and the whole family all but exterminated ;
and when Abdurrahman, the young chieftain of the race, swam
the Euphrates with his infant son in his arms, and fled for
dear life from Palestine to Egypt, and from Egypt to Morocco,
here he found a welcome and a home, among his own tribesmen
and partisans. With their stout aid he crushed out all rivalry, but
the process took him thirty hard years of fighting: and when he
settled himself down at length to build a palace and a Mosque,
that thing called death came upon him, and transferred the work
to his worthy son and successor, Hisham I., who completed the
Mosque in less than ten years. This completion was reached in
the year A.D. 796, so that Hisham’s work is nearly eleven centuries
old. From the subsequent lengthening and widening, of which
there is authentic detail, there can scarcely be a doubt that the
original work of Hisham comprises exactly the eleven western
longitudinal naves, running from north to south, so far southwards
as twenty-one transverse aisles will bring them: and it is exactly
the central of those eleven naves that is wider than the rest, and
leads straight up to the Kiblah.

Hisham I. was addicted to procuring his materials wherever he
could get them, by gift or force, pillage or spoilation: and the
marble pillars tell the tale. It is not alone that they vary in
colour and quality : but some are too long, and are sunk beneath
the pavement; others are too short, and the deficiency is supple-
mented by pieces above, just under the archaic capitals that
surmount them all. This over-length and under-length is a
speaking record of how they were procured, from shores and cities
far apart : from Narbonne and Nismes, from Tarragona and Cadiz,
from Carthage and the distant East.

Note that to that date (and for long afterwards) no question was
ever raised concerning the propriety of keeping up in Spain the
Damascene method of looking towards Meccah, viz., from north to
south. Thus matters went on for nearly one hundred and seventy
years, the Sultans of Cordova always enriching the building, and
the crowds that flocked to it always increasing in numbers, till
Abdurrahman III., better known as Annassir, bethought himself
of enlarging the Mosque by /engthening it; but he, too, died, after
a singularly long and prosperous reign,® and the work was executed
by his son, Alhakem II. (a.p. 961-976).

® Still in his diary he noted that there were only fourteen days in his whole

life that he could really call happy.
Vor. xm. No. 144, 24

308 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

It was then that the eleven original naves were brought to the
full length at which they are to-day : and also that the marvellous
Byzantine mosaic was eet up, which we still admire, and which
the Caliph Ann&ssir had stipulated for and procured. Furthermore,
it was then at length that a controversy arose, memorable, though
all too little known, concerning the point of the horizon to which
the “Kiblah” ought to be turned, the “mathematicians and
astronomers” contending that it should incline towards the east
the general public stoutly maintaining that it ought to be retained
facing the south, “as it was theretofore.” Let me quote the exact
words of the Moorish chronicler, Maccari, as to what ensued :

“While the discussion was progressing, a Faquir named Abu
Ibrahim came up to Alhakem and said to him: ‘O prince of the
believers! all the people of this nation have constantly turned their
faces to the south while making their prayers. It was to the south
that the Imaums who preceded thee, the doctors, the cadis, and all
the Moslems directed their looks, from the time of the conquest up to
the present day. And it was to the south that the Tabis (may God
show them mercy) inclined the Kiblahs of all the mosques which
they erected in this country. Remember the proverb which says:
It is better to follow the example of others and be saved, than to
perish by separating from the flock.’

“Upon which the Khalif exclaimed : ‘By Allah! thou sayest
right! I am for following the example of the Tabis, whose
opinion on the subject is of great weight.’

““ And he ordered that it should be carried out as proposed.”*

Thus did ritualism at that early date prove victorious over
“ mathematicans and astronomers,” and thus did the Mosque of
Cordova retain its southern direction, by way of looking towards
Meccah !

This is the paradox which people ignore or rashly deny,
although the fact is so plainly recorded in Moorish annals, and
patent to whosoever cares to examine the reality.

When the Khalif Alhakem died, his son and heir, Hisham IT.
was not yet in his teens, and his powerful prime minister, Alman-
z6r, constituted himself into a regular mayor of the palace, keep-
ing his young sovereign in a state of Merovingian seclusion and
idleness ; so that the acts of this reign are the acts of Almanzér,
as long as the latter lived. This minister surpassed Alhakem’s
addition to the Mosque, by widening it from end toend. A royal
palace stood in his way on the western side, and this caused the

® Maccarf’s “Moorish Dynssties in Spain,” Book JIL, chap. II)

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 309

eight additional naves, of which his enlargement consists, to be
all on the eastern side of the Mosque; and thus they appear to
the present day, out of gear and out of balance, as regards the
principal nave leading to the Kiblah, but, in other respects, in
keeping with the rest of the building.

Great as Almanzér was, lovers of ancient literature will
scarcely thank him for filling the cisterns of Cordova, and lighting
its squares, with parchments for which the Caliph Alhakem had
lavished his treasures and ransacked the East: and faithful
adherents of the dynasty which made him what he was, had
scarcely reason to be grateful to him for lowering and undermining
its prestige, and thus leading the way to its speedy subversion.
“ Almanzér” means victorious, and he died beaten ; all his plans
were for family aggrandisement, and ended most disastrously for
his family. Yet, we may forgive him his atrocious selfishness, for
under the higher designs of Providence, it certainly caused the
dismemberment of the Moorish power and hastened the re-establish-
ment of Christianity throughout the length of Spain.

* * . .

Saturated with these grand reflections, I returned to dinner.
‘My thoughts were about Abdurrahman and Annéasir, Alh4kem and
Almanzér . . . the eighth, the ninth, and the ten centuries —nothing
more modern! The table d’héte brought me promptly back to
the nineteenth, amid commercial travellers, whose talk was about
the weather, and about the difficulty of finding business-men at
home, and awake, in this “old-fashioned” city. According to
their version, when a Cordovan is at home, he is asleep: when he
is awake, he is sure to be out—off to some ice-house, or cool
promenade. This I could partly believe, and appreciate, consider-
ing the temperature.

But, all the more, the wonder to me was, what on earth could
dave brought these commercial men to this “old-fashioned ” place,
as they irreverently called it. I suppose they fell here ina flight,
as birds of passage do: or that they came here on the principle
that men of their craft should go everywhere. Commercial
travellers, to a certain extent, are the pioneers of modern civiliza-
tion, and not bad company in their way. To them the dead past
is nothing; the present, including the near future, all. Before
long I found myself initiated into some of their mysteries of buying
and selling: and one of them, a Frenchman, invited me to accom-
pany him in a tour to Algeria; instead of which I joined him in
a ramble round the town.

310 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

The streets are perfectly clean and bright-looking, although
moet of the houses are centuries old. The Moors had a saying =
“An Andalusian of the lower classes would spend his last dirhem
in soap, instead of buying food for his dinner.” This merely
meant that the people fully realised the virtue of cleanliness, and
that with them, as with the modern Dutch, it was a passion. The
Christian population still cherishes the same virtue, and it shows
itself in the house-fronts, which are tinted with lime-wash, and
look quite modern, even where of oldest date. This antiquity is
revealed, as at Seville, not in blackened frontage, but in the deep
depression of the “patios” beneath the level of the adjoining
streets. As for the patios themselves, they seemed to me less
graceful, and less tastefully laid out here than at Seville. Perhaps
this is prejudice: but. although the two cities are only some
twenty leagues apart, even the ancient Moors used to recognise
a difference of character and taste between them. For there wasa
saying : “when a learned man dies at Seville, and his family wishes
to sell his library, they send it to Cordova .. . When, on the con-
trary a musician dies at Cérdova, and his instruments are to be
disposed of, the custom is to send them to Seville...” So, you
see, then as now, Seville was the city of song: and, in those days
at least, Cordova was the city of learning.

The spell of music has proved more potent than the magic of
science, and more conducive to healthy longevity. Seville is still
a capital, and a queen. Cérdova is but a fragment of its former
self; and in walking its cruelly paved streets, we seem to be tréad-
ing a graveyard, so much of the former vitality lies buried beneath

our feet... ‘Three hundred inns, six hundred minor mosques,
nine hundred baths, two hundred thousand houses, a million of
inhabitants! . . .” Such was Cérdova in the days of the Caliphs,

when scholars even from the bleak north came flocking to its
famous schools, And fancy can picture it then, as Damascus is
now, such as Kinglake’s magic pen has drawn it, spreading out
its length along the rivers edge—“a city of hidden palaces, of
copses, and gardens, and fountains, and bubbling streams.” For
were they not of quite the same race, the same creed ; and almost
the same climate, and the same soil." At present the three hundred
inns are replaced by a few well-kept hotels; of the six hundred
minor mosques the few that remain are rather neglected-looking
chapels, and you have to dive down flights of steps to get into
“I am glad to find that Sir William Sterling Maxwell, in his charming
biography of Don Juan of Austria, calls Cérdova the Damascus of the West.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. gu

some of them. As for the baths, I suspect most of the bathing is
now done in the river which, alone unchanged, “ flows on for
ever.” The population has dwindled to a twenty-fifth part of what it
“was; and corn is grown and stamped out with horses’ feet, amid
the sites of the fairy palaces and hanging gardens, the sparkling
fountains and streams, that ere now enlivened the wide-spreading
suburbs of ancient Cordéva. “Sic transit gloria mundi!”

But what survives is bright and joyous; to be otherwise would
be impossible in Andalusia, And as the place was voted “old
fashioned ” by “ Messieurs les commis-voyageurs,” let me tell you
that, on my arrival this afternoon, I was shown to a room fitted in
the most modern manner, with a ceiling at least eighteen feet high,
all tastefully tinted, and with a floor delightfully done in encaustic
tiles. .. And this evening, when I rang fora “luz,” a stately
servant brought me, not a miserable “ bougie,” destined to figure
next day in the bill, but a three-light massive silver candlestick,
which did not figure. Nor was it a republican sneer, but a loyal
smile, that greeted me from his dark and handsome face, as he
respectfully wished “buenas noches,” and retired with a salute as
‘deep as if I were a marquis . . . Such is Andalusia!

. . . .

Córdova had not yet finished unbolting its windows and pon-
derous doors when I was out again to finish exploring the great
Mosque.

In the middle, enclosed within lofty walls and with lofty vault-
ing overhead, is the “coro,” with “capilla mayor,” carved stalls,
&c. Everyone makes the same remark: these cathedral fittings
would be admirable elsewhere, but here they seem sadly out of
place. “ You have built here what you might have built anywhere
else: to do so you have spoilt what was unique in the world.”
Such was the petulant remark of the emperor Charles V. when
the chapter showed him what was done under his own sign-manual,
obtained while he was fighting battles far away, and thinking very
little about Cérdova and its Mosque.

Still, let not wsthetic indignation go too far—for was it not the
conversion of this Mosque to Christian uses that saved it from
demolition, and is it not this “coro” which keeps it a cathedral,
“and thereby secures for the entire precincts the magic preservation
in which we find them to-day.*

The interior walls of the Mosque are fringed with chapels,

* Even at this early hour there were ladies praying, attended by their
duonas and attired all in black, as at Seville.

312 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

most of them mortuary. A king lay in one, a cardinal lies im
another. Gtarcilasso de la Vega, he who accompanied Pulgar im
the dashing night ride through Granéda, and killed the defiant
Moor next day, lies in a third. He lived to be a distinguished
diplomatist, but “ most of the chapels are dedicated to the burial
of those who succumbed in the struggle with the Moors,” as
Contréras remarks: and he mentions one Moorish champion,
Osmin, “ who sent more than one hero to the sombre vaults of this.
cathedral.” If Osmin could rise from his forgotten grave, what
better memorial could he desire than this honour paid to their
memory.
But not all the graves are of warriors grim—the epitaph om
one runs thus:
AQUI YACE
EN
POLVO, CENIZA
x
NADA
Dá YNEZ HENRIQUEZ VALDES

This Lady Ynéz was probably in her day one of those proud
Andalusian beauties on whose every line and movement nature
stamps her happiest grace, for a few fleeting years: and.now the-
epitaph is too undeniably true: here she lies “in dust, ashes, and
nothingness ! ”

Wandering away again amidst the Moorish naves and aisles,
if you ask their exact number, you are met by the strange fact,
that no two persons seem agreed about it. The discrepancy ranges.
widely, from eight hundred and odd, to fourteen hundred and fifty !
To me even the lesser estimate would seem quite beyond the
possible limits of truth, considering the exact number of aisles
and naves, &c. Any smart young man could settle the controversy
in a few hours, if he got a little help : but here the wide doubt seems.
to trouble no one, and perhaps the elasticity of figures is not with-
out its mysterious enjoyment.

The Moors used to say that amongst these columns are three-
red ones, on which are engraved, “ by the hand of nature,” things
wonderful to behold, viz.: on one, the crow of Noah!...on
another, the rod of Moses and the sleepers of the cave! ... on
the third, the name pf Mohammed himself! . . . Polished agate-
will represent almost anything, at least to people of lively imagi-
nation ; and in that sense I do not disbelieve the old Moors; áll I

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 31s

can say is, that I did not see those columns. But I did see one,
near the middle of the north-western portion of the Mosque, on
which is engraved a crucifixion, roughly but distinctly and deeply :
and the legend is that a Christian was chained to this column for
a long number of years, like Bonnivard at Chillon, and that this
crucifixion was engraved by him with his finger-nails!!!

On the left side of the principal nave, in this oldest and most
important portion of the Mosque, is the “ Macsoorah,” correspond-
ing almost with the Christian “coro; ” for here the Caliph and
his doctors used to take their places apart from the multitude, in
face of the gorgeous Kiblah. It looks as if taken bodily from
the Alhambra, with its traceried filigree of stucco, its azuleio tiles,
and its precious marbles: and sculptured lions, here as there, again
attest that the Spanish Arabs were not as particular in their avoid-
ance of animal forms as is generally supposed.

In this principal nave Almanzér suspended the bells of Com-
postella, and here they swung reversed, to do duty as lamps, amidst
chandeliers of silver, and gold, and burnished brass.

It struck me this nave is in line with the minaret, and there,
too, bells were introduced, to summon the faithful to prayer after
the manner of the Christians! But the tradition is, that the faith-
fal never ceased lamenting till the chimes were removed ; and then
the hearts of true believers were made glad, when the muezzin’s
call again “reverberated through the stillness of the night.” It
is only three days since an American, fresh from Tetuan, described
to me this muezzin’s call as a “hideous howl:” but no doubt it
was better intoned here in the days of the Caliphs, and fell on
more sympathetic ears.

But let us away from this enchanted place, or I shall go on for
ever. Once out in the glare of day, one’s steps turn towards the
old bridge that crosses the river, just outside the city walls. Built
by the old Romans, rebuilt by the Moors eleven centuries ago, it
consists of about fourteen arches, and is still in perfect order. It
leads to the village where the gipsies dwell, and where the real
Carmen lived: and by it you can explore the walls of every date
that encircle this ancient town. But alas! such exploring is not
for me...O the dust, ankle deep, incredibly fine, and dazzling
bright, which carpets the bridge and all about it to-day, and brings
my ramble to a sudden halt. It and it alone, is the cause why I
have nothing more to say... For, seeing it, I thought of how it
would rise with the least breeze. . . and, thinking of this, I
paused... and retreated ... Good-bye!

(34)

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
(Book IV. Ode 7.)

BY STR STEPHEN E. DE VERE, BART.

THE quickening year dissolves the snow,
And grasses spring, and blossoms blow
Through greener plains: the stream once more
Glides lessening by the silent shore:
Again th’ awakening forests woar
Their pendent wealth of wreathéd hair;
‘While nymphs and graces, disarrayed,
Dance fearless in the mottled shade.
‘The cireling year, the fleeting day,
Are types of nature's law, and say
That to frail earth the fates deny
The gift of immortality.
‘All, all is change. ‘Neath spring’s warm sighs
Hoar-headed winter wakes, and dies:
Summer succeeds to vernal showers :
Autumn comes next with fruits and flowers:
‘Then winter lays his icy hand
Once more upon the sleeping land.
Through Heaven’s blue depths swift-esiling moon
Repair the loss of vanished suns:—
But when we reach the fated shore
‘Which kings and hernes trod before,
What are wo? clay to dust returned,
A shade, forgotten and unmourned.
We live to-day : to-morrow’s light
May not be ours: then live aright;
‘With generous heart thy riches share,
And disappoint the grasping heir.
‘When Minos throned in Stygian gloom,
Relentless judge, shall speak thy doom,
‘Torquatus, thee nor proud descent,
Nor wit, nor wisdom eloquent,
Nor piety itself, shall save
From the dark silence of the grave.
In vain the buntress queen implored
Hades’ inexorable lord
To free her chaste Hippolytus:
The might of Theseus strove in vain
To sunder the Lethean chain
Which bound his loved Pirithous.

Cas)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS IN THE OLD
NATION.

Parr IL,

«P."— Yas, there are great materials for a gallery of National Por-
traits in Ireland, which we hope to see made available by-and-by.
To any student who has leisure and money they may be seen in the
galleries of the castles and manor-houses, with which their memories
are associated. In one summer we saw portraits of Black Stratford
(the ablest Englishman that ever came into Ireland), and the “ great
Earl of Ormond,” hanging side by side in the gallery of Kilkenny
Castle; and, close to them, the mild face of Bishop Butler, author
of the popular Catholic Catechiam, who was of the Ormond family;
portraits of Boyle, the philosopher, in his birthplace, at Lismore
Castle (now a portion of the overgrown property of the Duke of Devon-
shire; of Mrs. Tighe, the authoress of “ Psyche,” at Woodstock ; of
Sir Walter Raleigh, in Youghal (where his house is still preserved) ;
of Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnell, “the Catholic Lord Lieutenant” (as
he was called), in Malahide Castle—and many more. A friend of ours
in Cork possessed a portrait of the great Aodh O'Neil, and the family of
another a portrait of Luke Wadding, the Irish friar, who would not
quit his order to be a Cardinal.

We have received a circular from some person in Manchester,
accompanied by a pamphlet on the subject of ‘Friendly International
Addresses,” with a view to discountenance war, and substitute

* “National Arbitration.” We have been thinking how it would work—
as thus:—Abd-el-Kader, sends a “friendly address” to Louis
Philippe, suggesting: that their mutual differences shall be settled by
arbitration: suppose the improbablecase of that proposal being accepted
—the still moreimprobable case of an arbitrator being found who will
deal justly between the powerful and the weak; and suppose the award
made—that all French troops are to be withdrawn from Algeria,
and that the French shall pay to the free nations of Africa certain
large sums of money as compensation for having harassed them by so
many years of unjust war. Here is the award: who will see it executed.
Will the arbitrator draw his sword, to compel acquiescence, making
‘threo parties to the war instead of two? Or will the love of justice,
or fear of Almighty vengeance, enforce it? Conceive the government
of British India, when it has already prepared to pounce upon the
Punjab, being arrested by a “ friendly address” and offers of arbi-

316 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

tration P—by a sense of justice, or the fear of God or man! No,
friends! Arbitration can have no place in criminal proceedings.
National crimes cannot be compromised, like a defalcation in the Man-
chester District Bank. Heaven exacts vengeance for them, oftenest by
the patriot sword : and your attempt to discredit that method of redress.
is a conspiracy to bring the tribunals of Providence into contempt, and
high blasphemy against the Lord of Hosts. Your pamphlet says much of
the criminality of war. Now, we have always believed—we shall die in
the belief that the Athenians did not commit crime at Marathon—that it is.
a deadly crime not to draw the sword against invasion or against oppres-
sion—that the anniversaries of certain battles that adorn history are, in-
deed, sacred fasts of the world—and thatthe steam of death arising from
the field where some robber army has found a bloody grave, ascends a.
grateful incense to the nostrils of heaven. Our Manchester friends now
know a little of our mind, however strange it may sound to them in
piping times. The circular concludes with this postscript :— '“ Would
occasional communication on the subject of peace be acceptable?”
No, except upon the terms on which Mr. Holloway advertises his
universal remedy.

The Datly News correspondent gives the following piece of intelli-
gence connected with Ciceroacchio, the celebrated Roman tribune.

Ciceroacchio has this morning placarded the town with the follow-
ing singular document :—

“ Protestation.—I, Angelo Brunetti, better known as Ciceroacchio,
find it necessary to announce that I have no connection with place-
beggars, and cannot procure situations for needy persons. I am a
simple man, earning my bread for my family by honest industry. I
do not frequent ante-chambers or the halls of great people. It is made
known to me that people are going about collecting money, by way of
tribute to me, as a man who ought to be supported at the public ex-
pense. These men are impostors, and traffic on public credulity.
My only wish is to do my duty as a citizen, and to forward the interests
of the dwellers in the noblest land the sun ever shone on—the land of
Pio Nono.”

“L, L.'s” speculations on the causes that prevented an Irish
historian arising seem in general false or superfluous. There was no
national spirit adequate to beget and sustain one— that is cause enough.
Even at this hour it is doubtful if a historian would be understood or
honoured in Ireland as he ought to be. Fortune could send usno higher
gift than an Irish Catholic Prescott, or Thierry to tell our story to all
time; yet if he came it seems doubtful whether he would not rank in
popular estimation eome million times below his natural position. An
impediment that operates wider than speculation can follow it—for
reputation is one of the wings on which the literary labourer soars to
new flights.

Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.” 317

“J.”— Grattan was a Whig, butan Irish Whig, not an Englishor impe-
rialist one, Irish in heart, and soul, purpose, and ambition. “If the Irish
constitution is incompatible with the British empire—perish the empire,
live the constitution ; my second wish is the British empire, my jirst wish
and bounden duty is the liberty of Ireland.” To class such a man with the
Whigs of the present day would be like confounding the Roman Senate-
that defied the Gauls with the soulless creatures who registered the de-
crees of Augustus and Tiberius. What was really pernicious in
Grattan’s Whigism was a distrust of the people, and a too great clinging:
to constitutional abstractions, Contrast Wolfe Tone’s superior clear-
sightedness, as to the root and cure of the malady of Ireland. Grattan
ought to have sooner discovered the uselessness of his splendid
eloquence—never was there sadder sight than to see such living
fire, night after night, falling dead upon an impassive mass of corrup-
tion and stupidity—without the formidable strength of that “ rout’”
from which he shrank so nervously. But his darling revolution of ’82.
had been carried by gentlemen, and he could never get himself heartily
to associate with any other body; yet, in spite of errors like these—
all honour and reverence to him—our greatest, save one or two.
Read and re-read those speeches of his on the Union. Inspired.
prophecy could hardly be more accurate than his predictions, down to
the very details of the ignominious time that was to follow. And every—
where he teoms with suggestions, with grand enunciations of principles-
true in all times and countries, but beyond price at present and
to us.

“ Gorey.”—Your ‘Wexford characteristics” do not contain one-
new thought or new fact. You write in a country full of traditionary
romance, of hair-breadth ‘scape, of mournful tragedy, where every hill
top has its Croppy’s grave, and every valley a reeking memory of
burning and butchery, and your composition is devoid of a single in-.
cident, of one bold thought, or terse expression striking on the
heart. It has a wordy enthusiasm, which, without facts or ideas, may
be classed under the denomination Rhodomontade. We beg of you to-
forget the attempt, and begin afresh. Learn the stories of the maidens
who fell into the Hessians’ grasp—of the fathers half-hanged or
picketed over their own hearth-stones—of the children butchered be-.
fore their mothers’ eyes—of the homesteads shooting in forked light-.

_ nings to the sky: learn these, think on them well, and then try to-
write.

A Monaghan correspondent complains that “The Cross” in the-
Diamond of that town has been removed and taken asunder, and
regularly delapidated, steps, stocks, and all, by the order of the county
surveyor. Our friend need nowise fret. The Rossmores (that is the
English of that ilk) displayed their exquisite taste and antiquarian.
love by destroying the ancient stone cross of Monaghan about, thirty

318 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

or forty years ago, and further exhibited their architectural superiority
to the men of Ross, who preceded them, by sticking up on the hal-
lowed site a horrible block of shapeless limestone, with four iron
lamp-holes, steps innumerable, and a stone seat for punishment. We
thank the county surveyor for removing this monster “cross.” Let
it go the way of all stone and be built into a pigsty. We had rather
fancy a memory than witness a monumental insult. Where that old
“cross stood, when the rushes grew round it, Sir William Fitzwilliam
hanged the Mac Mahon.

[Norz.—Remembering that Sir C. Gavan Duffy was born in
Monaghan, may we venture to assign this “ Answer” to him ?]

TO THE XPITOR OF THE NATION.
London, Chelsea, 26th Jan., 1848.

‘Ma. Eprtox.— Will you be so kind as to say in your column to cor-
respondents where I could find a true account of William and Garrett
Byrne, of Ballymanus, of 98 memory? Neither Hay nor Teeling give
-any account, and T. C. Croker, in his life of Holt, tells wilful lies of
the whole family of Clan Ranelagh. Dr. Madden has but little on the
subject. I cannot get Cox’s, nor the Hibernian Magasine to pur-
-chase in London, neither are they in the British Museum.

Hoping that you will not consider this too much of an intrusion,

I remain, your obedient servant. E. O'B.

We never met any full or satisfactory written acoount of the
Byrnes ; but you would scarce meet a man from Arklow to Ashford
but could tell you a score of legends of them. They are better
known to the people than Tone or Lord Edward. We wish some
Wicklow friend would collect these floating traditions, and send them
to us. If not, when the summer comes back it will be a pleasant holi-
-day task for some tourist from Dolier-street.

“A Member of the Swift Club.”—The Balbriggan hosiery, like
many another invention, was born of that prolific mother of improve-
ments, Necessity. When the silk trade was lost to Dublin, the weavers,
to fit cotton thread to their silk looms, made it of the fineness which
has rendered that article so famous.

“A Coreagensian:"—Barry the painter is buried, not in Weet-
minster Abbey, but in the crypt of St. Paul's. His tombstone is bedded
in the floor, near those that cover the mortal parts of Reynolds,
Lawrence, Opie, and other eminent artists; it bears this simple in
scription :—

The Great Historieal Painter,
James Barer,
Died February 22nd, 1806.
Aitat 60.

Answers to Correspondenta in the Old “ Nation.” 819

Father O'Leary sá buried in the Catholic chapel, Sutton-street,
Boho-equare ; the epitaph on his slab there is given in his life by the
Rev. Thomas England, a piece of most excellent biography.

“A Student” aske for reliable information about the Irish
abroad. In almost every foreign stateman’s life, or foreign history,
for the last two centuries, you will find something of them. But in
Betham’s “Memoir of the O’Donnells,” the sketches of Count
O'Reilly and Count O’Ruark, the Hibernian Magasine, and O’Connor's.
Military History, you will find many strange and pleasant achievements
of that noble Celtic race, who gave to Continental Europe, in the 17th
and 18th centuries, eo many eminent statesmen and generals.

“An Ecclesiologist."—The best account of the Irish Colleges
founded abroad is in Ware’s works, vol. 2, under the head of “ Anti-
quities.” Sir James, in introducing it, regrets that the occasion of a
war with France had broken up his correspondence with “ all parts of
Europe,” and consequently prevented his being as particular in that
account as he had desired. He has, however, very considerable infor-
mation touching those of Lorraine, Lisle, Douay, Bordeaux, Prague,
Paris, and Rome. These are all of modern date, the oldest of them
being instituted no farther back than 1597. But the earlier Irish
schools, founded for the inetruction not of our ancestors, but of the
continental people, date from the sixth and seventh centuries, as
Luxenil, Fontanes, Bobio, St. Gall, &o, For information concerning
the latter “ An Ecclesiologist” is referred to Lanigan’s “ Ecclesiastical
History,” and 0’Connor's “‘ Scriptores”" as the most accessible authori-
ties, and to Colgan’s “ Acta” and the Bollandists for details.

[Some specimens of the correspondent’s letters must be given ;
they were often striking and characteristic of the era.]

We should not be surprised if this gentleman aspires already
to be the future Ulster King-at-Arms, or Cork Herald at the
least. He shall have our vote :—

TO THE EDITOR OF THE “ XATION.”
Srr—The choice of a flag is not a light matter. You know what.
our poet wrote :—
“ A nation’s flag! a nation’s flag!
Tt is a sacred thing.”

Our nation’s flag is a sacred thing, and should be protected as much
from innovation as from insult. I therefore respectfully advise that
we have neither tricolour nor bicolour, but stick to the good old green,
with the blazon of the harp and halo—the flag with which “ our fathers.
have gone round the world.”

And for the following reasons :—
Firet—Green is the hereditary colour of the oldest race in Ireland—
the Celtic. It is the common banuer of all the Oriental family, the

320 Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

Porsien, Circassian, and native Indian flag. With the greatest respect
for the Orangemen, they are not half a nation, nor a third of a nation;
‘and the badge of a Dutch soldier of fortune, sprung from the obscure
village of Orange, has no right on earth to be patched with the old
-distinctive standard of one of the ancientest islands on the globe. Let
them keep it as a badge if they like, but they must not ask us to make
it a banner.

As to having a tricolour, just because the French have it, I think
that’s no reason. I would as soon eat frogs or garlic, wear wooden
shoes and Norman head-dreeses, because the French choose to do so.

1 wonder at a man of Mr. Meagher’s fine taste and historical read-
ing to propose such a thing as an Irish tricolour. The old green is
typical of immortality. The harp, its proper blazon, is an evidence of
-civilisation and refinement (mingling as it does the two ideas of music
and poetry), with which we must never part. It is the symbol of the
intellectual empire our fathers have founded, and which has been
‘aot unworthily maintained by Young Ireland. Over the harp put
your halo—your sunburst—and you have one of the chastest and
noblest standards that ever flew between heaven and earth. Try it,
and judge if I am not right.

If you choose you may add the wolf dogs couchant under the
harp. They represent strength, courage, swiftness, and fidelity. If
the field of the standard be not very large, however, the fewer devices
you put upon the banner the better. A nation’s flag should be simple,
and full of dignity as the life of a hero.

I could write a volume on this subject, all in support of my own
theory (as every author ehould), but, perhaps, I have said enough for
the present.

I remain, yours very truly,

w.

Are we the guardians of “the Queen’s English,” that this
-complaint should be sent to us:—
TO THE EDITOR OF THE NATION.

Dublin, May 22nd, 1846,
Siz—I am a plain farmer of Meath, whom business occasionally
“brings into this city. I was educated at a school in Kells, kept there
many years ago by a most respectable man, now no more, who had
‘deen bred up to a profession, but failing in the necessary fees, was
obliged to betake himself to the ferula. He had the name of making
excellent classical and English scholars, and I was considered, though
I say it, one of his most finished productions in the latter department.
Indeed my reputation in this way became rather troublesome to me,
as I was always chosen spokesman for the deputations to the land-
4ord, or the Liberator, which my neighbours used take it into their

Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.” ': 821

Theads to send. I have been complimented for accuracy of speech at
several sittings of the quarter sessions, and have had more than once
to arbitrate between the contending critics in our place on abstruse
points of prosody. But, sir, I find now, by my experience in this
metropolis, that the English I spoke was altogether obsolete that, in
fact, a new language, like a new coercion bill, had come over from
London, and that all who were caught roaming in the twilight style
-of Swift and Goldsmith, and unable to give satisfactory accounts of
their schemes, were to be punished accordingly. Thus, on going into
a shop in Sackville-street yesterday, one of the attendants called to
his fellow to wait “on this gent.”—meaning me—and when I got as
fur as the Four Courts, where I thought that Lindley Murray, at least,
‘might get justice (if he was not accused of something seditious), I
found sundry eminent counsellors addressing the bench as “ My Luds;””
and when I murmured my disapprobation to a friend who was with
“me, the crier of the court indignantly shouted, “awdaw! awdaw!”

Now, sir, 1 want to know from you whether there really has sprung
up a non-English language, from which r's and h’s and whole syllables
formerly in vogue, are to be separated? I am sadly at a loss to judge
between the standard set up by my old master (Lord rest his soul!)
-a d your city merchants and men of law. I will consider it a least
favour if you can set me right in this perplexity, and will remain,

Yours, &.,
A Mears Fanuer,

P.S.—When I was a bachelor, we used to go courting among the
girls—there are no girls now; they are succeeded by ‘“‘guls” and
“gale.”

[The subjoined letter was probably from some of the noted
Young Irelanders, as it quizzes the Editor audaciously on projects
-announced in the Nation, from time to time, but never accom-
plished. ]

We have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. P. Patchwork, but
she dreams like a Pharao or Daniel O'Rourke :—

TO THE EDITOR OF THE NATION;
Noville, Feb. 6, 1848.
“Was it a dream P”

Estimantz Sre—Yeosterday, as I sat in the twilight of my study,
‘not wishing to bring in the candles till the day was quite gone, I had
-@ revelation which I hasten to communicate to you.

My book-case, I thought, suddenly expanded, and crept round the
four walls of the room, where formerly it had occupied but one. A
gradual and romantic light seemed to kindle in the room, by the help
of which I soon perceived that it was in the Irish department my
dibrary had so greatly increased. Looking more closely I perceived

892 —— Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.”

that on the backs of several new-looking volumes were these charac-
ters: Bolg-an-Dana (a budget of Irish Verse), by Clarence Mangan ;
Ferguson’s Ballads and Songs; M‘Carthy’s Poems; MacDermott’s
Poems; De Jean's Poems; two volumes marked “ Speranza ; ” a‘ New
Spirit of Taz Nartox;” and a volume of Dramatic Scenes from Irish
History. Lalso perceived some strangers in prose, which I found to be
Barry's “ Rising of 98 ;” ‘ Chronicles of the Pale: ” “ History of the
Irish Brigade ;” and, to my great satisfaction, “‘ The Rising of 1641.”
by Charles Gavan Duffy. Near this admirable work were, “An
Industrial History of Ireland,” and “ A Literary History of Ireland,"
by T. D. M-Gee.

As I was coasting along this delightful land, I came to a large,
solid-looking volume, well bound in green, and ornamented with
national emblems. On examination I found that this was “ A National
History of Ireland,” by “ The Writers of Tng Nation,” —that it was
written for the use of Scholars out of School. I was so overjoyed at
this discovery that I leapt from my chair, clapping my hands, and in
my antics upset the old woman who, unperceived by me, had just come
in with the candles, My only excuse for this mishap was that I had
been dreaming.

Yours, estimable sir, very truly,
PERRGRINE Patcuwork.

[We can only venture on a few mild specimens from the com-
bustible volume for 1848 :]

The Examiner, in an article abounding in bad manners and bad
arguments, sneere at its own supposition that Ireland desires foreign
help to combat England, and pities the nation that cannot help itself.
Why, what a piece of ignorant bravado is this! Did England help.
herself? Was it not a foreign army that set every new dynasty from
William the Conqueror to William of Nassau, on the throne? Even
one faction of Englishmen could not combat another without calling in
Scotland, France, or Holland to help them. The Ezaminer’s pity may
be well bestowed at home.

“ A Meath Farmer” tells us that it is widely believed in his country
side, on the strength of a supposed prophecy of Columbkille, that the
independence of Ireland cannot be won till the year 1849, Ah! friend,
trust us, it was not the good Saint of Iona, but Clarendon, of Cork-
Hill, who uttered this prediction. He has imported an LL.D. from
London for the purpose of manufacturing little popgun pellets against
Repeal, and this is one of them—a weak invention of the enemy.
Our friend tells us of a further prophecy, falsely attributed to the
patriot saint, that war must needs begin in March, for “if we sow
in peace, we will reap in peace.” This is a false reading, and a
spurious edition,; our copy says, “sow in peace, and reap in peace, but.
fight like fury before you allow a stook of the harvest to beplundered
by the black stranger.”

Answers to Correspondents in the Old “ Nation.” ' 323

The English papers are already giving way before the first pros-
pect of union among Irishmen. The Times thinks Repeal a "' debate-
able subject:” the Daily News thinks “this is not a time to make
Ireland the one great exception to the rest of Europe and the world ;”
the Sun is pathetically remonstrative; the Morning Chronicle, con-
tinuing the crusade of calumny against the Catholic priesthood, says
“if they join with the people, the English government in Ireland is
ended.” This is the worst slander of all. Why should not the Catho-
lieclergy oppose imperialism? Does it enrich them? Does it respect
them ? Does it diminish poverty, heal sickness, or protect their people ?
‘Of all men in Ireland they are naturally the most opposed to the
Castle, and the most wedded to national independence, The Chronicle’s
first condition is fulfilled, they are with the people, so will victory be.

A correspondent suggests that a special edition of the popular
English book on dietics, entitled “ What to Eat, and Drink, and
Avoid,” should be prepared for the Irish peasantry by ministerial
authority, laying down as things to be eaten and drunk, Indian corn,
diseased potatoes, and water, and putting in the catalogue of things
to be avoided, beef, mutton, bacon, wheaten bread, milk, malt, and
other unwholesome and stimulating vivers.

Our Paris correspondent sends this account of the new Pro-
visional Government :—

The first notion was, that the commotion had thrown ite sediments
upwards. But this is a total mistake. The new men are men fit to
govern. Dupont de l’Eure is the Robert Holmes of France—Lamar-
tine Thomas Davis grown old—Arago, your Sir William Hamilton, or
say Sir Robert Kane, as a more familiar example—Armand Marrast,
John Dillon, grave, profound, practical, with purpose like a sub-
terranean fire, burning without intermission and without flame ; Ledra
Rollin resembles Smith O'Brien; he has the same uprightness, frank-
ness, and unconquerable tenacity ; and in a contest with Louis Philippe’s
government exhibited the very qualities of fortitude and contempt for
personal consequences that brought O’Brien into the custody of the
English House of Commons. As for Albert (ouvrier) you will expect
me to name some clever artisan on your Confederate Council, or among
the Dublin trades; but the ouvrier is a workman only in masquerade.
He is, I believe, a small capitalist and a manufacturer, and calls
himself a workman by no other right than sympathy with the class
from whom his fortune came. I should have preferred a real ouvrior
for the sake of fraternity.

Hippolyte Carnot is the son of the Carnot. He is the leader of the
education party, an active, benevolent man—a somewhat wiser Wyse
than your late member for Waterford. How priceless would his
great father, the Carnot of the first Revolution, be at this hour? The
profound wisdom, the depth, the foresight, the systematised industry,

Vou. sn, No. 144. a5

324 A Promise.

and the prodigious resources of that man, have no parallel among
the men of our day.

He also sends us a description of the military students of Paris,
which ought to be an example and stimulus to the students of the
same race in Dublin :—

“TI wish you could see the brave students of the Military Schools .
of the Ecole Polytechnique, of Saint Cyr. Noble-looking young men
—with all the abandon of youth ; haughty, yet modest and polite—who
love their country as they love the mothers who bore them. In the
tumultuous agitation of Paris after the night of the 23rd and 24th,
it was they who were the apostles of order and peace. It was one of
their number who, snatching a crucifix from the hands of an infuriated
workman as he was about to break it across his knee—held it up to
the gaze of the crowd around him, exclaiming—' People ! respect your
Master—respect the Master of us all!’ But indeed the praise due to
such nobleness of soul must be shared with the people themselves; in
every crowd where angry passion manifested itself there was always
some blouse-clad hero to rise up and quell, by sovereign reason, the
rising storm. One sublime answer is recorded. A post had been
arried, after a long and bloody resistance on the part of the soldiers
who held it. Some of the victors were for avenging their friends who
had fallen, and at once levelling their pieces on the prisoners; but a
more Christian sentiment prevailed. ‘They have killed my brother!’
—cried one man, bringing the musket to his shoulder—‘ And whom:
could you kill,’ said another—‘ who is not your brother also P'”

[Norz.—Some misprints were left uncorrected in the first part of
chese “ Answers” In page 262 “ there are no pillars on the stones of

Zlontarf” read “shores.” In line 14 of page 294, for “prepared”
read “ proposed.”—Ep. I. M.]

A PROMISE.

BY HELENA CALLANAN,
AUTHOR OF “ GATHERED LEAFLETS.”
HE robin pipes o'er baby’s rest
His song in the elm-tree old;
Baby smiled on his mother’s breast
‘When autumn turned the leaves to gold.
But when the snowdrifts virgin-white
‘Were lying thick on hill and plain,
At Mary's feet with angels bright,
Baby carolled his Christmas strain.

Our Poets. 325

Keen blew the bleak December wind

‘The day our nureeling’s zrave was made,
Not e'ea a leafy wreath was twined,

Or blossom on his coffin laid ;
The tiny grave looked cold and dry,

We, with the trouble, and the prayer
To still our heert’s impatient ery,

Forgot to place a flower-gift there.

But, darling, when the woods are green
And summer visits all the bowers,
When balmy breath and fervid sheen
With kissos wake the sleeping flowers,
Tl bring the roses white and red,
And wild flowers culled from field and lea,
To watch oer thy groon cradle-bed,
‘And woep their dewy tears for thee.

OUR POETS.
No, 13.—Anrnur Gzratp Gaoongoan.

Bom the general and the special title of this article will puzzle at

first sight the most attentive of our readers. He will wonder
how he has lost all recollection of a series of papers of which the
present purports to be the thirteenth.

But in reality this numbering of the series is onlpan after- thought
acted upon now for the first time. Not minding reviews of some
poetical volumes, we may count the series from our fifth volume (for
the year 1877) in which special easays were devoted to Aubrey de Vere,
Adelaide Procter, Thomas Irwin, and Francis Davis, and four papers
to Richard Dalton Williams. Our sixth volume devoted a second
paper to Thomas Irwin, five to Ellen Downing, and one to Robert
Dwyer Joyce. The other poets introduced formally to our readers are
Mr. T. D. Sullivan, M.P., in our eighth volume, Professor Edward
Dowden in the ninth, Father Ryder of the Oratory in our tenth volume,
and, finally, in last year’s volume Sir Samuel Ferguson, who, however,
fell into the hands of a far more competent critic than the other poets
whom we are now grouping into a series.

A alight inspection of these twelve names that already occupy
niches in the gallery of “Our Poets” shows that the chosen ones
possess one or both of two qualifications—they are Irish or Catholic.

826 Our Poets.

Many who are neither might we study together in the same way, dear
reader, with pleasure and profit; but no one can blame a magazine
like ours for calling attention first of all to the poets who from one
cause or another are the least likely to receive elsewhere their due
measure of appreciation.

Mr. Geoghegan’s name will be unfamiliar to many who are well
acquainted with Irish literature such as it is since the time of Thomas
Davis; but these would recognise him as “ the author of The Monks of
Kilerea.” It is a pity that he has persistently shrouded himself in
such utter anonymity, not even choosing a pronounceable signature
but appending to his poems three asterisks or stars. This has certainly
interfered with the personal interest with which sympathetic readers
might have followed his literary career. Why not let all the little
glory or credit of a man’s work cluster from the first round his plain
Christian name and surname given in full P—if only one of each, so
much the better. So it was with William Shakspere, John Milton,
and Alexander Pope.

Arthur Geoghegan was born in Dublin at a date which we cannot
fix more definitely than by saying that it was far enough back in the
past to allow him to contribute to the Dublin University Magasine in
its best days, and yet near enough to the present to allow his muse to
bestow largess on Tug Inish Montuty. His “Scraps from Irish
History” appeared in the Dublin Penny Journal; the “ Student of
Louvain ;” “Grana Usile and Elizabeth” (which Denis Florence
Mac Carthy calls “ a picturesque and pleasing poem ”) and “ Mountain
Musings” in the Dublin University Magazine; and in The Nation
“The Irish Hill Fern” and the “High Race of O'Neill.” We have
before us at this moment in a large volume, published by Messrs.
Bell & Daldy of London, the third edition of “The Monks of Kilcrea
and other Ballads and Poems”—which unhappily is out of print.
Many of Mr. Geoghegan’s poems have been published in a French
translation by the Chevalier de Chatelain.

Our first specimen of this genuine Irish poet shall be a poem not
included in this the fullest collection ever published by Mr. Geoghegan.
It appeared first in The Nation, but we copy it from Denis Florence
Mac Carthy’s “ Book of Irish Ballads.”

Ob, the Fera! the Fern!—the Irish hill Fern !—

That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne,
‘That waves on our crags, like the plume of a king,

And bends, like a nun, over clear well and spring!

‘The fairy’s tall palm tree ! the heath bird’s fresh nest,
‘And the couch the red deer deoms the sweetest and best,
With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem,—
Ob, what can ye match with its beautiful stem P

Our Poets. 827

From the shrine of Saint Finbar, by lone Avonbuie,

To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea,
From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore,
Like a chaplet it circles our green island o’er,—

In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite’s cell,

On the hill-top, or greenwood, by streamlet or well,
With a spell on each leaf, which no mortal can learn,*—
Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill Fern!

Oh, the Fern! the Fern !—the Irish hill Fern !—

That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern.

Thro’ the glens' of Kileoe rose a shout on the gale,

As the Saxons rushed forth, in their wrath, from the Pale,
‘With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see,

To hunt through Olunealla the wild Rapparee !

Hark! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings

And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs,
Thro’ the copse, o'er the bog, and, oh, saints be his guide!
His fleet step now falters—there’s blood on his side!
Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream,
And sinks on the hill-top, ‘mid brachen leaves green,

And thick o’er his brow are their fresh clusters piled,

And they cover his form, as a mother her child ;

And the Saxon is baffled !—they never discern

‘Where it ehelters and eaves him—the Irish hill Fern!

Oh, the Fern! the Fern !—the Irish hill Fern !—
‘That pours a wild keen o’er the hero's grey cairn;

Go, hear it at midnight, when stare are all out,

And the wind o’er the hill-side is moaning about,

With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone

That thrills thro’ the heart with its whispering lone ;
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray

Where the halle of the stranger in ruin decay.

With night owls for warders, the goshawk for guest,
And their dais of honour by cattle-hoofs prest—

With its fosse choked with rushes, and spider-webe flung
Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons hung,
‘With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour
That tarries so long—look ! what waves on the tower P
With an omen and sign, and an augury stern,

"Tia the Green Flag of Time !—'tis the Irish hill Fern!

In studying Mr. Geoghegan’s poetry we have been much struck with
the loving familiarity which he shows with all sorts of out-of-the-way
places in Ireland, not in one county or even one province, but every-
where from Dunluce to Dunboy, from Lough Ine to Lough Erne.

* The fortunate discoverer of the fern seed is supposed to obtain the power of
rendering himeelf invisible at pleasure.

828 Our Poeta.

This is displayed especially in his very spirited historical ballads
which it is harder to introduce here to our readers, for the best of them
are of considerable length. For instance the Battle of Tyrrell’s Pass,
which was fought in 1597, is sung in twenty-seven quatrains of full
ballad measure. The prose account prefixed makes one follow the
stirring incidents with more pleasure; but it cannot be given here.
This is the opening of the story:

The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone in proud array
To drive afar from fair Westmeath the Irish kerns away,
And there is mounting brisk of steeds and donning shirts of mail,
‘And spurring hard to Mullingar ’mong riders of the Pale.

For, flocking round his banner there, from east to west there came
Full many knights and gentlemen of English blood and name,

All prompt to hate the Irish race, all spoilers of the land,

‘And mustered soon a thousand spears that Baron in his band.

For trooping in rode Nettervilles and D’Altons not a few,

And thick as reeds pranced Nugent’s spears, a fierce and godless crew ;
And Nagle’s pennon flutters fair, and, pricking o’er the plain,

Dashed Tuite of Sonna’s mail-clad men, and Dillon’s from Glen Shane.

A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle’s ancient hell,

And to his board he summons there his chiefs and captains all;
And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy boast and brag
How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any Oratloo stag,

The hero of this ballad is called in the prose note Richard Tyrrell;
young Barnewell in the ballad itself calls him Wat Tyrrell. Ie this
a slip of the poet P This Captain Tyrrell was employed by the great
Trish leader, Hugh O'Neill, with a band of 400 chosen men to prevent
the Anglo-Irish under Lord Trimbleston from joining the Lord
Deputy. At the banquet just described, Trimbleston announces his
purpose of destroying Tyrrell and his little band encamped in the glen
of Fertullah.

Then rose a shout throughout the hall, that made the rafters ring,

And stir’d o'er head the banners there, like aspen leaves in spring ;
‘And vows were made, and wine-cups quatt, with proud and bitter scorn,
To hunt to death Fortullah’s clans upon the coming morn.

These tidings unto Tyrrell came upon that self-same day,

‘Where camped amid the hazel boughs, he at Lough Ennel lay.

“ And they will hunt us so,” he cried—“ why, Jet them if they will;
But first we'll teach them greenwood craft, to catch us, ere they kill.”

Next morn, while yet the white mists lay, all brooding on the hill,
Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in every ill—

“ O'Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed ye to the dell,

‘Where winds the path to Kinnegad—you know that togher well.

Our Poets. ' 329

« And couch yo close amid the heath, and blades of waving fern,

So glint of steel, or glimpse of man, no Saxon may discern,

Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up, O'Conor, then,

‘And bid the drums strike Tyrrell's March, and charge yo with your men.”

“Now, by his soul who sleeps at Cong,” O'Conor proud replied,
“It grieves me sore before those dogs to have my head to hide;
But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go brag it thro’ the Pale,
Til do my best that few shall live to carry round the tale.”

Tho mist roll'd off, and “ Gallanta up!” young Barnewell loudly cries, .
« By Bective’s shrine, from off the hill, the rebel traitor flies

Now mount ye all, fair gentlemen—lay bridle loose on mane,

‘And spur your steeds with rowels sharp—we'll catch him on the plain.”

“Then bounded to their saddles quick a thousand eager men,
And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra’s wooded glen.

But gallants bold, tho’ fair ye ride, here slacken speed ye may—
‘The chase is o'er !—the hunt is up!—the quarry stands at bay !

For, halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell placed his band,
‘And proudly stept he to the front, his banner in his hand,
‘And plung’d it deep within the earth, all plainly in their view,
‘And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud his bugle blew.

Saint Colman! 'twas a fearful sight, while drum and trumpet played,
To see the bound from out the brake that fierce O'Conor made,

‘As waving high hie sword in air he smote the flaunting crest

Of proud Sir Hugh De Geneville, and clove him to the chest!

“On, comrades, on !” young Barnewell cries, “and spur ge to the plain,
Where we may best our lances use!” ‘That counsel is in vain,

For down swept Tyrrell’s gallant band, with shout and wild halloo,
And a hundred steeds are masterless since first his bugle blew !

From front to flank the Irish charge in battle order all,

‘While pent like sheep in shepherd’ fold the Saxon ridere fall;
Their lances long are little use, their numbers block the way,
And mad with pain their plunging steeds add terror to the fray!

And of the haughty host that rode that morning through the dell
But one hes 'acaped with life and limb his comrades’ fate to tell ;
‘The rest all in their harness died, amid the thickets there,

Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a snare!

Though we have omitted a great many very spirited stanzas which
add to the completeness of the story, our extracts have extended so far
that we can give no samples of one of Mr. Geoghegan’s most
picturesque poems, “ The Student of Louvain,” which is placed last
of all in the volume, not without some design, we suspect, to leave the
reader's last impressions very favourable. But it is unfair to suppose

830 Our Poets.

that all our readers are as familiar as some of us with the poem which

Oooupies 180 pages of the book to which it gives also a name. ‘The

Monks of Kilcrea” in its fall form is a collection of metrical tales of

varying metres, woven together by a device somewhat similar to what

Longfellow has since used in his “Tales of a Wayside Inn.” Mr.

Googhegan’s substitute for a wayside inn is Kilcrea Abbey in county
OTK.

‘Three monks sat by a bogwood fire!
Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
Close sat they to that bogwood fire,
Watching the wicket till break of day;
Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea.
For whoever pase'd, be he Baron or Squire,
Was free to call at that abbey, and stay,
Nor guerdon, or hire for his lodging pay,
Tho’ he tarried a week with its holy choir!

‘Three monks sat by a bogwood fire,
Dark look’d the night from the window pane,
They who sat by that bogwood fire
Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Thade by name,
And long they gazed at the cheerful flame ;
Till each from his neighbour began to inquire
The tale of his life, before he came
To Saint Brigid’s shrine, and the cow] had ta’en,
So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats nigher !

It is not the monks who are the storytellers, but three guests who
that night claimed the hospitality of Kilorea Abbey. We would fain
linger over this volume which is now out of print; but we trust we
have at least made our readers share our wonder that, more than forty
years after the publication of the best of these poems, this brief paper
should be the first to inform them that the author of “ The Monks of
Kilorea” is Mr. Arthur Gerald Geoghegan.

(381)

NEW BOOKS.

‘Tue most important event of the month in oyr literary world is the
appearance, not unexpected or unannounced, of Miss Tynan’s “ Louise:
de la Valliare, and other Poems” (London: Kegan Paul, Trench and
Co.). The outward form of the hook js in faultless taste. "The exqui-
site music of the verse reminds us of a passage in Ruskin’s “ Queen of
the Air,” where he speaks of “a rippling melody of Sebastian Bach’s,
much like what one might fancy the singing of nightingales would be
if they fed on honey instead of flies.” But it is not our intention to
indulge at present in any study of this true work of art. In Parlia-
ment the honorable member who opens a debate is allowed also to
close it; and as this Magazine had the privilege of being the first to
welcome by anticipation this first work of a genuine singer, its pages
may group together, later on, some of the careful criticisms of which it
is sure to be the subject. The first that.we have seen appeared in
The Weekly Register of May 16, and the writer, who is manifestly
competent in the highest degree to judge of the subtlest beauties of
language, style, and diction, pronounces an emphatically favourable
judgment, which is the more valuable from the calmness and wisdom
with which it is delivered. We hope that our colleges and convents
will encourage Irish talent by assigning to this beautiful volume a
place of honour in their prize lists this summer. Many of the poems
are holy enough to be read on one’s knees in the dim religious light of
the convent chapel, and in every one of them the thought and feeling
are as pure and refined as the diction and style.

A very delightful prize-book of a very different kind, and for less.
mature readers, is “ Linda’s Misfortunes,” by Miss Clara Mulholland
(Dublin: M. H. Gill and Son). It is bright and engaging in every
respect, both within and without, and is, we think, the most useful and
interesting story yet written by the author of “The Strange Adven-
tures of Little Snowdrop”—for which, by the way, our American
cousins are showing their appreciation by reprinting it in various waye,
without as much as saying “by your leave.” The new tale displays
an intimate acquaintance with the habits and dispositions of little girls,
and, while it will amuse and interest youthful readers very much, it is
sure to teach them several useful lessons. It may be well to add that
this is emphatically a story for girls. Linda’s father is the only mem-
ber of the male persuasion whose existence is even alluded to. Wasit.
by way of compensation that a short story is tacked on at the end,
which is nearly all about a little boy from Wicklow? A very pathetic
little tale is “Little Brian’s Trip to Dublin;” but, as even pathetic
tales ought to do, it ends quite happily.

Except on the old chivalrous motto of place aux dames, it seems gro-
tesque to mention only in the third place so important a work as the
large octavo which contains “ ‘The Charity of the Church a Proof of her

832 Notes on New Books.

Divinity,” from the Italian of his-Eminence Cardinal Balufi, Arch-
bishop of Imola: with an introduction by Denis Gargen, D.D.
(Dublin: M.H. Gilland Son). The learned Professor of Ecclesiastical
History in Maynooth College has, in this splendid volume, enriched
Catholic literature with one of the most solid additions that it has re-
ceived for many years. Dr. Gargan’s Introduction proves very eloarly
the value and opportuneness of Cardinal Balufii’s treatise, which could
not be presented to the English reader in a more satisfactory form.
‘While sure to interest all cultivated readers of solid tastes, it claims an
honoured place especially in the libraries of priests; and in particular
the advocates of our various charities and works of zeal will find
herein an inexhaustible store of arguments and illustrations. Though
the index is confined almost exclusively to the names of persone, a
glance at it will give, even to the casual reader, some idea of the vast
amount of learning crowded into these five hundred ample pages. The
Italian Cardinal has been fortunate in his Irish translator, and the
publishers have done justice to both. The theological censor of the
volume is the Rev. Patrick O'Donnell, Prefect of the Dunboyne estab-
lishment in Maynooth, and it bears the imprimatur of Dr. Walsh,
President of that great college, in his capacity of Vicar-Capitular of
the archdiocese of Dublin.

“The Decay of Faith” (Burns & Oates, 1885), is the title which
Father Gavin gives to four sermons preached by him in Farm-atreet
Church, London, on the Sunday afternoons of February last. All of
them—“ Indifferetice to Misbelief,” “ Distrust of the Supernatural,”
“Dangerous Reading” and “Mixed Marriages” are well suited,
we may be assured, to the needs of the audience for whom they
were primarily intended; and all of them may be read with great
profit by ourselves. But it is to the first and fourth that a special
significance will attach in Ireland. Dangerous reading, in the sense in
which Father Gavin takes it, is not very prevalent amongst us. It may
be that with time and the spread of higher irreligious education the peril
will become serious ; but at present it is practically confined to a very
limited class, and, even amongst them, the grounds of misbelief are
generally found to be less intellectual than moral. ‘ Distrust of the
Supernatural,” too, as a vice of intellect, has not taken any great hold
upon us. But “ indifference to misbelief” undoubtedly has. The old-
fashioned hatred of heresy is dying out amongst us; it is becoming
“old-fashioned” in a literally true sense. So long as Catholics were
despised and trampled on and ground under foot by a tyrannous
Protestantism, hatred of heresy was amongst the easiest of the virtues :
social relations and family ties opposed no obstacle to the doctrine of
exclusive salvation. We are despised still, though the contempt is
almost different in kind from what it used to be; but, for obvious
reasons, we are not trampled upon as our fathers were : we have been
“‘emancipated.” Now there is a danger that masses of men, like

Notes on New Books. 333

individuals, may prove more slavish after emancipation than before ;
and we have not wholly escaped it. The Act of Parliament which
made us free could not compel our former task-masters to receive us
as their social equals ; and wherever they have dared they have refused
todo so. Had the Irish Catholics of post-emancipation days appre-
hended their position rightly, the remedy for this was easy. They
formed the vast majority of the population of the country; they were
intellectually, morally, physically without superiors ; every prize, with
one or two exceptions, which any Irishman could aim at, was within
their reach: union and self-respect would have given them social power.
But in union and self-respect they were pre-eminently wanting. Too
many of them, as they rose to eminence, through wealth or intellectual
merit, cut themselves off socially from their co-religionista, and strove
to gain admittance into the more select circles of Protestant society.
The natural result followed. Those who, Peri-like, had found entrance
into the Protestant paradise, could not make much show of Catholic
intolerance. They could not wound the feelings of their newly-made
friends. They were compelled to hide away in word and act much that
was distinctive of their religious creed. And eo it has come to pass
that the Catholic body has been largely deprived of ite natural lay
leaders, and that, instead of growing in strength, it is probably weaker
to-day for many purely Catholic purposes than it was before emancipa-
tion. But yet this is not the greatest of the evils which have befallen
us. Apart altogether from supernatural considerations, the outward
circumstances of their life told largely upon the habits of thought
of the Catholics in question. Any evolutionist would have foretold as
much. And hence a weakening of the Catholic instinct and the
spread of uncatholic principles amongst them—not a result, as some
hope and others fear, of spreading education, but an effect of con-
tinued social contact with heretical error. When those whom
you know best and esteem most highly are almost all without
the Church’s pale, it is difficult not to look upon religious error
in an indulgent light; not to see some compensation for it in the
truthfulness, and honourableness, and good breeding, and wealth
of those who profess it. From such a state of mind to half-uncon-
scious, half-reasoning, carelessness about the purity of our own
Catholic beliefs the step is easy. Andso we meet sometimes Catholics
who make their religious liberalism a boast, Oatholics who freely ex-
pose their children’s faith to the influence of dangerous associations
during their most impressionable years, Catholics who are well content
to see their sons and daughters take partnors for this life from the
ranks of heresy. To all these, and to all our people, we can heartily
recommend Father Gavin’s sermons on the “Decay of Faith.”
Mesers. Brown & Nolan, Nassau-street, have just published a
Handbook of ‘Greek Composition, for Junior and Middle Classes, by

834 Notes on New Books.

Henry Browne, 8.J.” It may be thought by some that already there-
are plenty of books on this subject, without trying any experiment or
novelty. But we understand that this Handbook is specially intended
to meet the wants of Intermediate Students, who find the subject of
Greek very hard, and, as they have no book exactly suited to them,
are naturally attracted to easier and more “paying” subjects. The
Intermediate system was, we are told, meant to be some measure of
justice to Catholic Schools. It may have benefited them materially,
and has perhaps quickened in some way the zeal of masters and pupils,
but it will prove in the long run a fresh calamity if it results (as we
fear there is reason to dread) in the sacrifice of our old solid training
in classical and English literature for eome miscellaneous smatterings
of sciences and other modern subjects. We sincerely hope that Mr--
Browne’s little book will prove of some use in encouraging our boys
to stick to Greek, and we are confident that masters will find their work
simplified, by giving to their pupils a Handbook with the essential
Rules and Idioms clearly and briefly stated. It. will require some
explanation and supplementing, and we agree with its author who-
points out in the Preface that a handbook will scarcely be handy, if it
contains all the information which could be usefully imparted by oral
teaching. Hence the book is not so well suited for private students as-
for class purposes. We have nothing but praise for the form and
general arrangement, (which is stated to be altogether new), the
accuracy and care shown throughout, the judgment in the choice of
examples and comparisons with Latin, and last, but not least, the
typography which is exceedingly good, and shows that the publishers
have spared no pains to make it worthy of their justly cele-
brated Classical Series.

Sundry authors and publishers will be so good as to forgive us for
reserving judgment till next month on several other books which have-
been presented before our tribunal. As they have come so far—all ©
the way from Notre Dame in Indiana—we must welcome with a word:
No. 1 of “The Annals of Our Lady of Lourdes,” a monthly bulletin
of the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception established at
that appropriately named place; also “ A Troubled Heart and how it
was Comforted,” which is a very original and very eloquent and:
interesting history of a convert’s struggles from childhood to obey
God's voice calling him through very unusual ways into the Catholic:
Faith. In Father Bridgett’s singularly beautiful, sincere, and pathetic:
sermon on the late Bishop of Southwark, Dr. Coffin, who was a member
of the same Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer, the pereonal
details woven together with much grace and simplicity are in the
highest degree interesting and edifying ; and we are so sure that the
little brochure will be particularly acceptable to many of our readers
that we may mention that it can be procured for fourpence from L.
Lally, 5 Clapham Park-road, London, 8.W.

IRISH LITERATURE AND OUR TWELFTH
ANNIVERSARY.

IHIS month of July, 1885, brings round the twelfth anniver-
sary of the birth of this periodical. It is an auspicious date
to refresh our good purposes, to revive our highest ideal, to define
our best aims and means, and, in the sacred phrase, to be renewed.
in spirit. We cannot do so more effectively than by adopting as
our own the words with which a magazine of a similar but some-
what graver character began its career in Ireland a quarter of a
century before the first number of Tue Irish Monruty made its
appearance. We use this manifesto the more freely as we now
receive it from the hand of the author himself, without any notion,
however, that we should turn it to such account. We use it the
more freely also because its author is one of our own contributors,
having found time to help our enterprise occasionally from its first
beginning down to the present time. The many years which have
elapsed since the following article was written have rendered none of
its views and suggestions obsolete. Meanwhile, indeed, English
literature has unhappily grown much worse in those points wherein
itis here described as somewhat less dangerousthan theinfidellitera-
tures of the continent. The reader's admiration for the solidity and
wisdom of these reflections on the necessity of a Catholic literature
for Ireland which we have ventured to link with the modest epoch
of our twelfth anniversary, will be increased if we state plainly
what has already been implied, that the following paper was
written by one who at the time had but just crossed the threshold
of manhood. It is named “ A Catholic Literature for Ireland.”
* . . .

The very highest aspiration we can make for our periodical is,
that it may be the forerunner of a Catholic literature in Ireland.
If its humble labours can in any degree conduce to that great end,
then, whatever be in other respects its failure or success, its mis-
sion will be more than amply fulfilled. For such a literature does
seem to us, almost beyond any other thing, the essential want of
this country. Civil freedom and national prosperity may, and we
trust shall be won before this generation of Irishmen has passed
away; but we have only to cast our eyes abroad to see that even
freedom and prosperity may come on terms far too dear, _)If here,

‘Vow. xnt., No 146. July, 1885. 26

336 Irish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary.

as elsewhere the day that looks on the active development of our
energies should also behold the intellect of the nation hopelessly.
divorced from the only spirit that can guide or purify ; should see
our youth wasting mind and golden years in the uneasy chase of
half truths, of which the end is but error and evil; should see a
people hungering and thirsting after knowledge, and finding no
fruit to sutisfy them save what is deadly to their spiritual life ;
and should thus see sown, even in the midst of apparent blessings,
the certain seeds of future crime and anarchy; would we not
revolt at the exchange P

These apprehensions, we trust, will be belied ; but who, looking
to the condition of mankind, will say they are imaginaryP Of
late ages the Church has had to do battle with the spirit of the
world, embodied in a mightier and subtler form than in all previous
time. From the corruption of nature, from human passione, and
the persecution of kings and emperors, she has always suffered,
and always must. But in former centuries there was at least, no
distracting dissonance between the secular learning that informed,
and the Divine authority which claimed to direct the mind. There
breathed throughout even secular works a spirit of religious rever-
ence which harmonized with, and fortified the belief of the people.
Pitfalls there were for pride and wilfulness, but, at least, no galaxy
of false lights for the deception of the earnest and sincere. But
now, for a century and more, the learning of the world, the basis
of systems of philosophy and polity, all that has been crowned
with the high names of Genius and Intelligence, has been (why
should we conceal it?) in by far the greater measure, hostile to,
or estranged from Catholicity. The wisdom of man has been but
too manifestly at variance with the wisdom of God. Thcre has
been a literature of Protestantism which obtained its chief develop-
ment in England, and whose day is now almost gone by : a litera-
ture of French philosophy, and lastly, a literature of German
philosophy, which again acted on France and England, and which
is now the most progressive principle opposed to Catholicism in
the world. There hus been, indeed, of late years, a strong Catho-
lic reaction, as numbers of profound works produced on the Con-
tinent, and the Anglo-Catholic movement in England, may testify ;
but still, the surface of the current continues to run in the other
direction.

The condition of a young mind in France or Germany, in our
days, is unhappy and perilous in the extreme. It is girt by a
circle of infidelity, from which it is wonderful if it escapes: In

Irish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary. 337

every branch of knowledge which the craving intellect turns to,
from history and political science down to the lightest works of
fiction, the poison of scepticiam prevails. The student drinks it
in from the authoritative lips of teachers and professors. In
society as in books, he finds it the reigning spirit. Between such
a philosophy, so taught and sanctioned, clothed with all that
dazzles and captivates the natural man, appealing both to the
passionate desire of novelty, and the passionate admiration of
favourite authors which are so characteristic of youth—between
this and the submissive belief and exacting practice of the Church,
how unequal a conflict! Who can wonder that the faith, even of
those who from association and religious instinct cling to it the
longest, is at length sapped and displaced P

In Ireland we have been educated, for the most part, by the
Protestant literature of England—a literature, anti-Catholic, no
‘doubt, but not to be named, either for power or malice, in com-
parison with the modern literature of the Continent. As to the
ignorant sneers and violence against Catholicity with which it
abounds, it is one of our earliest lessons to learn to steel ourselves
-against them, so that after a time they cease to wound us. And
there is in the body of English literature, if not a religious spirit,
yet a full recognition of the truths of revelation ; and so far as
the influence of Christianity on our social and secular ideas is con-
«cerned, there is so much in common between Catholics and Pro-
testants, that the citadel of our faith has not been much injured.
by it. Still it has been mischievous in more ways than one. The
very fact of our being obliged, as we said, to become hardened to
insults and mockeries against the peculiar doctrines of Catholicity,
is itself an evil—so much of religion depends upon awe and rever-
ence for things unseen, that it is no light mischief to be familiarized
with contempt for sacred mysteries. We become callous where
we should be most sensitive, and swallow as matter of course what
should instinctively revolt us as blasphemy against the Holy of
Holies.* But besides this, the Protestant tone of our literature
thas undoubtedly had a tendency, if not to undermine the citadel,
yet to shatter some of the outworks of Catholic belief. If it has
not had much effect in making Catholics infidels, or Protestante,

* What a striking example of this are Peter Plymley's Letters ?—a book
“written in favour of the political rights of Catholics, and whose advocacy was
‘hailed by them with delight, yet stuffed with the most insolent and unseemly
ribaldry against their religion. One passage, from the very beginning of the
dbook, we thought of quoting, but forbear from positive dieguat.

338. Irish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary.

yet it has in a great measure stripped us of whatever is striking
and peculiar in the tone of Catholicity. It diminishes reverence
for Catholic rites and ceremonies, chills the love of Catholic institu-
tions and usages, and generates a contempt for pious traditions, not
absolutely of faith, and an indolent unenquiring scepticism as to-
everything miraculous in church history ; and if the bent of thought.
which it produces does not absolutely refuse to coexist with Catho-
lic belief, yet it tends to deprive the latter of the pervading and
overarching influence which it ought to exercise upon all our ideas
and habits, to drive it, as it were, into a corner of our mind. In
brief, its effect is to make Catholics intrench themselves within the
minimum of Catholic faith, believing just what they must believe
on pain of heresy, and no more; and priding themselves upon
having their Catholicity as little unlike Protestantism as possible.

All these results are sad enough, and of themselves loudly call
for counteraction. But the literature of religious Protestantism—
Protestantiem itself, as a religious system, are in their decline.
The right of private judgment has given birth to younger and
more daring progeny. The English sceptical writers, though the
earliest, did not produce their deepest effect in their own country,
but transmitted their influence to France, where there sprang up
an organized and aggressive army of unbelief. Their mode of
attack was conducted with consummate art. They did not, like
the English freethinkers, confine themselves to heavy philosophical
treatises scarce opened by the multitude; but through tale and
essay, and epigram—in dictionaries and encyclopedias, with the
keenness of a matchless wit, and all the graces of style, they sought
but too successfully to taint the very atmosphere of letters with
their principles. So artfully, too, did they blend their covert
assaults against religion with attacks on real abuses in church and
state, that they at length succeeded in confounding these two-
things; and one party came to hate the church the more, as the
antagonist of freedom, the other to dread liberty as the handmaid
of irreligion. Nor was it on the Christian dispensation alone that
they made war—they ridiculed and scoffed at any sense of dignity
or mystery in the nature and life of man. No solemn social bond,
no depth of awe or reverence, no obedience or holy fear was
recognised by them ; everything was mean, superficial, and intelli-
gible. How far this fatal philosophy extended, and what have
been its results on the world are manifest to all. But other doctrines
have since gained ground, doctrines which had their root in
Germany, and which agree with the French in rejecting revelation,

Trish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary. 839.

but in almost nothing else. These Germans were revolted at the-
mean and false portrait of human nature drawn by the school of’
Voltaire. They felt that there were heights and depths in man.
which no plummet of French philosophiam had sounded. They

acknowledged the mysteriousness of life, the greatness of

enthusiasm and devotion, the majesty of duty, the sacredness of

law. They are full of lofty and unworldly speculation ; of Chris-

tianity they speak respectfully, reverentially even, as being one,

and hitherto the best, of the transitory forms in which great truths.
took shape: Mahometanism being another of those forms. But.
what belief they propose to substitute for old Christianity—what

resting-place their doctrines yield for the wearied spi1it—what.
curb for the rebellious passions, let no man ask, for no man, we are-
sure, will be able to answer. They cheat us with an array of

imposing words—faith and truth,” and reverence, and annihilation

of self—ideas which, in the heart of a Christian, have a relation

and significance, but which with them present no tangible concep-

tion, but at best are a poetic exaltation of the brain—with some

a half belief, with others an utter cant. Thus the German philo-

sophy, though better, because less earthy and sensual, and because
it at least excites the desire of celestial truth which it cannot
gratify, is yet less consistent than the French. The one lays
plainly before you a barren desert as the sum of man’s hopes here-
and hereafter, the other deludes you with the fugitive semblance of
the living waters. We will be pardoned these considerations
for the sake of the sad fact, that these doctrines—a blank material-

ism or a shadowy, unmeaning spiritualism—are diffused through.
every vein of the present mind of Europe.

As to the results of all this. No one will ask us, at this day,.
to prove the effects of literature upon the ideas and actions of’
mankind, or to show to how large a degree men in this age are-
what books make them. We would not refer to so trite a theme
as the French Revolution, were it not for the sort of opinion that
has grown current of late, that that portent, with all its diabolic
crimes, was the natural and necessary consequence of the previous
oppression of the government and aristocracy ; that it is a lesson
to kings and rulers, and to no others. That there was gross oppres-
sion, and scandalous neglect on the part of both civil and ecclesias~
tical authorities, no one can deny; and further, we may admit,
that the ferocities of an excited mob are things incident to every

* Et dicebant: veritas et veritas; et multi eam dicebant mihi, et nusquam.
erat in eis.—&. Aug. Confee., LIIL

340 Trish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary.

violent change. But it should never be lost sight of that the
extreme wickedness of the French revolation—the wholesale judi-
cial murders—the establishment of Atheism by law—the destruc-
tion of all holy ties, were the work not of the multitude, but of the
middle classes who rose to power. And it seems to us the grossest
absurdity to conceive that such things would have been done or
tolerated, if every spark of religious principle, or restraint, had
not been long extinguished in the minds of those classes by the
influence of Voltaire and his confederates. And further, if anyone
ask for the effects of this literature, we tell them to look abroad
over Europe at this day. What principles and rules of action are
predominant in the cabinets and councils of kings and statesmen P
Principles of justice, of deference to the Church, and a horror of
intrenching upon its privileges or province? No: but incessant
schemes to have the Church gagged, and bound at their feet, sub-
servient to their worldly policy, and winking at their wickedness.
Utilitarianiem, Benthamiam, modern enlightenment—call it what
‘you will, the seed was sown by Hume and Voltaire. Again, we
say, cast your eyes over Europe. In France, Prussia, Spain,
England, even Austria, the endeavour is to make the Church the
creature and slave of the civil power. Religion has to battle for
its clearest and most sacred rights. Surveying these things, let us
acknowledge the influence which the sceptical philosophy has
exercised upon the modern world.

The modern literature of England, by which we mean the pro-
-ductions of the last twenty years or so, isnext to worthless—with
few exceptions, most trashy and emasculate. Still such as it is, it
reflects and helps to shape its time, and to those who look a little
‘below the surface, who watch indications rather than expressions,
and regard colour as well as matter, it is manifest that here too,
whatever vital principle there is, is not fixed faith of any kind, but
the floating uncertainties of Germanism.

But Ireland, how is she to be made proof against all these
influences? This problem, the most momentous of the many that
surround us, is one that must be solved under worse penalties than
any political disaster. The heart of the country, thank God, is
sound; no people in Europe more deeply religious. But in our
gratitude and just pride for this, let us not lose sight of the
auxiliary causes that contributed to it, nor presume too much on
the grace that has been bestowed upon us. Let us remember that
it was one consequence of the Penal Laws, to burn into the heart
of the Irish Catholic an intense devotion to his persecuted religion

Trish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary. 341

—that the forbidden education which the gentleman received
abroad and the peasant at home, made religion a vital part of
knowledge. The latter looked up to his priest as the fountain of
all information, sacred or profane, that man could need. The
ihedge-schoolmasters, with all their pedantry and absurdity—even
with all their vices—never ceased to inculcate a love of their own
religion, blended, perhaps, with too fierce a hatred of its oppressors.
Let us remember that, during the long struggle against religious
tyranny, the idea of Catholicity became knit with that of liberty ;
that theological controversy was almost a part of that battle, and
that it was necessary for politicians to become familiar with and
explain the doctrines of the Church, in order to answer the asper-
sions of their antagonists.

Nearly all this has changed, or is changing. No longer bound
dy the bond of persecution—no longer in the heat of a semi-
religious struggle—no longer unaffected by the current of opinion
elsewhere, and with an irrepressible tendency towards education
of all kinds, the intellectual and spiritual future of Ireland is a
theme of the deepest anxjety and moment. Her condition may be
likened to that of an individual mind, naturally vigorous and in-
quisitive, but, long cramped and restrained, possessing deep
instincts and affections, but no regulated structure of opinion, and
which, when released from bondage and springing forth to seize
the fruit of knowledge, is open to influences from every quarter of
Heaven. How this plastic mind shall be moulded; whether the
soul of thought that is about to enter into Ireland shall be the
harmonious counterpart of that soul of faith which has guided
and upheld her through the furnace of the past; whether her
mature reason shall be pregnant with the conviction now living
anspoken in the heart of her millions—that in true religion is
found the cycle of all duty and all moral truth—whether the wise
-among her sons shall be wise enough to know that whatsoever is
not subordinate to this is foolishness; whether the character of
Ireland among the nations shall be one of lofty Christian zeal, as
well as lofty nationality—these considerations may well have an
interest for us. But to expect that these great results will come spon-
taneously ; that the mind of Ireland, with no pains taken to guide
it aright, and buffeted by all the winds of temptation, will tread
securely and directly in the true path, seems to us a confidence
against reason and nature.

Such a Catholic literature as we long for, and could shape an
ideal of —a literature religious to the core, which should reflect the

342 Irish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary.

majesty and eternal truth of our Faith, and its beauty and poetry
as well; Irish, too, to the core—thrilling with our Celtic nature,
and coloured by our wonderful history ; such a literature, and its.
glorious associate, a high Catholic and national art, may be of
slow formation, and wait long for their maturity. And, indeed,
they demand something beyond the ordinary labours of genius.
Still, a beginning may be made. A beginning has been made in
the works of our dear Gerald Griffin ; the tone and spirit of which,
whatever be his theme, leave nothing to be desired. And we
scarce know how much a little effort in the right direction may
effect. For when the heart and sympathies of a people are with
you, it is easy to influence their minds. Let what has been done
of late, in infusing a spirit of nationality into our literature, be-
a lesson to us. Formerly, that spirit was as rare in current books.
as a tone of Catholic religion is now. But once a few zealous
men set ‘themselves to preach the principles of national feeling,
what a bound was made by the popular mind in that direction.
How eagerly did they imbibe everything that was said and sung of
the wrongs and hopes of Ireland, and of her forgotten heroes.
Because these things were but the expression of what they them-
selves had dumbly felt—but the touching of a chord with which
their own pulses beat in unison.

And of this national literature, a word may be said in relation
to our own design. Of the deep sincerity as well as ability of the
men whose work it is, and of the good they have achieved in
arousing our sense of national dignity and affection, no one can
say too much. Still we think they committed a mistake in not
basing their labours more on the religious feelings of the mass of
the people whom they addressed. The reason of this was, no
doubt, the desire to find a way to the hearts of Iriskmen of all
religions Yet it was, in a great degree, an error, and one which,
we believe, they will come move and more to recognise. At all
events, it has left one-half, and the more necessary half, of the
teaching required by the majority of our countrymen to be yet
laboured at.

If there were but a few zealous sowers, how quickly would a
little seed produce a harvest in such a soil. And what materials.
for the undertaking —what a well is our history from whence to-
draw the beneficent waters that we seek. Those distant ages to
which Alfred and Bede have borne testimony, when our doctors
instructed and our saints converted Europe, and the hymns of an
Irishman were adopted as the chants of the whole Western Church

Irish Literature and our Twelfth Anniversary. 348

-—that proud time is not a fiction, or the hyberbole of national
vanity ; it rests upon evidence as sound as any fact in history. To
reproduce this age, and the acts and words of its holy men and
women, for the Irish people at this day—to give them therein a
genuine and high source of national pride, from that alone what
fruits might not spring. Have we not to become familiar with
the men of the seventeenth century, with their Spanish fervour
and loftiness, and intensity of Catholic nationality? And from
our worst days of suffering, what lessons may be drawn? Is not
our history for ages one martyrdom? There is a halo of true
glory resting on our sad annals if we had but eyes to read them
right—a truer glory than is found in our protracted resistance on
the field, or the occasional victories that flash through the long
night of disaster. Of these the bitter result after all is, that we
“were conquered ; but there was another, and a far higher field of
“battle, in which the victory was wholly ours, and the ignominy
“our conqueror’s. Lord of land and life, and not sparing either, he
:sought to be lord of conscience too, and was uniformly and utterly
baffled. A race, taunted with their fickleness and too often divided,
too often in other things unstable as water, were in this, in the
atruggle for an unseen good, the very type of resolute tenacity, of
unity and unconquerable will. We know not if a time will ever
-come when men will recognise in Christian fortitude and fidelity
sa higher thing than the bravest fighting—if they do, this country
will assuredly stand high. But, at least, se should impress this
truth upon ourselves. We long to see a sense of these things
sentering deeply into the minds of our educated young men ; to
‘see their character and opinions formed by that part of our history
too; to see our future politicians and statesmen distinguished for
‘Christian wisdom as well as for a noble courage, that when the
liberty of this land is won, she may be a light to modern as she
was to ancient nations, not the imitator of their madness and
injustice. And if, asa fond imagination might at times believe,
that independence which she has ever longed for with more than
Hebrew longing, be delayed till she can embrace it and use it in
this spirit, can we feel otherwise than deeply thankful to that
Providence which ‘shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we
will P”

(34)

THE PROUD LADY OF FALEENSCHLOS8.
(From the German of Feliz Dahm).
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MONKS OF KILOREA.”

the towers of Falkenschlone beside the winding Rhine
Dwelt a lady long ago, heiress of a Palatine;
‘And beautiful and young she was, but yet so full of pride,
‘That lovers’ vows she cold disdained, and all their suite denied.
“ My heart is free, for no man’s love care T,” she proudly said,
‘And like the wild deer on the hills she tost her graceful bead,
‘And, as with downcast looks they stood her presence bright before,
All haughtily her dark eyes flashed and scorned them more and more.

A lordly feast she gave, and when within her banquet-hall

Her suitors sad were gathered there, both knights and nobles all,
Drest as bride she came and on her raven tresses set

She wore, as Lady of the Land, a golden coronet.

And proudly from the dais raised she viewed that splendid throng,
And mocking cried, “Ho! lovers mine, is one your ranks among
‘Who dareth now to claim my hand as worthy?.” No reply

Came from the guests, when suddenly rang clear “ Fair Lady, I!”
Aad forward stept a youthful knight in glancing armour drest,

His sword his right hand grasped, a jeweled order on his breast,
Her bright eyes flashed haughty atare, he met it calm and proud
And “Who art thou? I know thee not”—the Countess says aloud.

“ A stranger I within your land, from distant Palestine,

‘Yet not unknown to fame is Albrecht, Count of Litchenstein.
And hearing noised both far and near your beauty and your pride,
I came to see this froward maid, who would be no man's bride.”

Her heart beat quick, her bosom throbbed in wild yet sweet alarm,
‘And crimeon grew her cheeks and brow with blushes soft and warm,
‘As bending down her graceful head, to answer firm she tried ;

But a tremor in her voice all her haughty words belied.

“ What merit makes thee thus presume?” Then gently anewered he,
“Of beauty such as thine true hearts should always worthy be;

And if within this hall there's one who dares to slight my word,

Let him stand forth! There's lies my glove—I'll prove it with my sword.”

Then soft and pleased the lady’s eyes upon the young knight rest,
‘While heaving breast and trembling form a struggle plain confest,
As stepping from the dais down she went into the hall

And blushing took the gauntlet up before the nobles all.

Then taking off her coronet she placed it on his head

And “I your loving wife will be, if counted worthy,” ssid.

‘Thus in the towers of Falkenschloss, beside the winding Rhine
In one day wooed and won his bride the Count of Litchenstein,

(345)

MARCELLA GRACE

BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

AUTHOR OF “ musTER’s WIsTORY,” “THIN WICKED WOODS OF TO!
‘THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,”

:ERVIL,"” “(RL DEROOWAX,”
TC.) ETC.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE MISSING LINK.

Bryan KILMARTIN was lodged in Kilmainham prison, and the
world talked of his guilt, which was accepted as a foregone con-
clusion, and rejoiced over as the long-missing link, discovered at
last, between the Nationalists, with whom this man had openly
ranked himself in politics, and the Fenians to whose counsels he
had all the while secretly belonged.

His arrest caused a profound sensation in Dublin. In the beat ©
circles scarce a voice was lifted in his favour. It was taken for
granted that a man of good family and education, who had so far
forgotten the traditions of hie class and his duty to his Queen as
to become a Fenian, was quite capable of lying in wait for his
fellow-man and fellow-landlord at a street corner, and doing
him to death under cover of darkness. To suggest that a man
ought to be held innocent till proved guilty was to be looked on
as a secret advocate of murder, or, at least, as one in “ sympathy
with crime.” ”

For rumour already said that it would be proved in the forth-
coming trial that Kilmartin had been a Fenian for years. Ac-
cording to a Central News telegram he was an agent for the
American dynamite party, and in the caves and cellars of the
isle of Inisheen, where he had of late surlily withdrawn himself
from the society of his neighbours in the county, stores of arms.
and ammunition had been discovered, with material for the manu-
facture of explosives sufficient to reduce London to a heap of dust.

Many people who had long looked upon him as an enthusiast,
but knew him to be quite incapable of crime, were so bewildered
at finding- themselves objects of disgust and suspicion for holding
favourable opinions of him, that they withdrew from his defence,
and went blindly with the stream.

-846 Marcella Grace.

Some good, easy, honestly-selfish folk, who had always tried to
believe that God had created them solely to take care of them-
-selves, and who had occasionally felt Kilmartin’s theories and
practice with regard to the lower classes a thorn of reproach in
their sleek sides, looked on this misfortune that had befallen him
as a judgment upon his folly in meddling with misery that need
not have concerned him, and silently wished him well out of the
scrape, while they reflected comfortably that the necks of wiser
men like themselves could never be placed in such imminent

-danger. '

It was said that startling revelations, such as surpassed the
inventions of romance, might be expected on the trial, but the de-
tectives kept their secrets, and society languished on the rack of
suspense. The whispers averred that a woman had been mixed up
in the plot; some said a girl of low degree, others said a lady;
while one version of the tale set forth how a beautiful needlewoman
-and a wealthy lady of title, both sworn Fenians, and both inte-
rested in Kilmartin, had been aiders and abettors of the murder,
-and were now in danger of being hanged.

Not a few good women thought of his mother, and, hugging
their own boy-babies, pitied her for bringing such a monster into
the world ; while others, of a harder nature, were sure the mother
-of such a wretch must be worse than himself. Those who had
known Mrs. Kilmartin in younger days were fain to remember,
even when they spoke gently of her, how warm she had always
been on the National side of politics, and held her in some degree
accountable for the evil-doing of her son.

The fact that there was a mother in the question was méntioned
in all the papers, and the.“ Press Association” discovered that the
said mother was six feet high, with a masculine voice, and had
been implicated, while Bryan was still a child, in International
-outrages abroad, when she had escaped from pursuit disguised as
a man.

As yet Marcella’s connection with the case had not been un-
earthed, or, at least, if anything of it was known, the public had
not been taken into the confidence of those whose business it is
to make such discoveries. Every morning she scanned the papers
with burning eyes, dreading to see mention of her own name, or
of the house in Weaver’s Square, but nothing of the kind appeared,
and she allowed herself to hope that no clue existed to that occur-
rence of the eventful night in January in which she had played so

-active a part.

Marcella Grace. 347

The allusions to a woman, to a needlewoman, or lady of title,
or both, as having been mixed up in the transaction of the plot
to murder, startled her, but as the rumour was vague in the
extreme, and seemed to die away instead of gaining more definite
form, she hoped that the only foundation for it lay in the bare
fact that the police had searched the house in Weavers’ Square.
Her father’s death, accounting for her own disappearance from the
scene, and her subsequent sudden and complete change of estate
had, she believed, cut off all probability of further inquiry into the
particulars of that midnight search.

Still, every hour of the day and night she was conscious of the
reality of that scene in the old house. Even in her troubled sleep
she could not lose sight of the dimly-visible closet door, could not
forget her anxious vigil while listening for the great bell of
“ Patrick's” tolling the hour which was to enable her to set her
prisoner free in safety. It was all so present to her mind that she
fancied people would read the story in her eyes or hear the terror
of it in her voice, and in those first days of Bryan’s imprisonment
she was divided between her desire to be in Dublin, close to Kil-
mainham, and her dread that the reappearance of her face in the
streets of the city might in some way bring to mind and to light
the daring and secret action of the Liberties’ girl who had hidden
the present prisoner from the officers of justice, in the hour of, and
not far from the scene of the murder for which he was now to be
tried.

For the first week or so Mrs. Kilmartin’s illness was a positive
reason for remaining quietly at Inisheen, but as soon as the poor
little mother had recovered from the effects of the first shock she
began to make piteous entreaties to be taken to Dublin, where she
might be within easy reach of her son.

Then she consulted with Father Daly as to what was the best
thing to be done. Neither to him nor to the mother, more than
to any other living soul had Marcella whispered the reason why
she dreaded to be seen in Dublin. They had as little cause to
think that she had ever beheld Bryan Kilmartin in her life before
she had met him under Mrs. O’Kelly’s chaperonage at the Patrick's
ball as had the world at large, and it seemed to her almost as
desirable to keep all information to the contrary from their
knowledge now as to hide it from the chief of the police.
And so it happened that both Mrs, Kilmartin and Father Daly
looked on in wonder and doubt at her evident distress and
hesitation when the proposal to remove to Dublin, in company

Vow. xi. No. 145. 7

348 -Maroella Grace.

with, and in charge of Bryan’s mother was confidently laid
before her.

A look of misery came into her face which startled both these
true hearts when she said :

“Would it not do for the mother to come with me to Crane’s
Castle and remain quietly there till the trial is over? Father
Daly could bring our messages to and fro—and there i is the post.
Perhaps we should only do mischief by our presence.”

Mrs. Kilmartin turned her face to the wall with a moan and
said no more. It was clear to her that too much had been expected
of this girl in the fulness and promise of her youth and her heiress-
ship, with the world before her and the brightest possibilities at
her feet. She had thrown herself into an engagement with Bryan,
not dreaming of the tragedy in which it was to involve her.
Though she suffered for him, and refused to believe in his guilt,
might she not naturally recoil in dismay at the prospect of the
heavy and perhaps enduring cloud which would overshadow a
future connection with him? Might she not feel that she ought
to be released from her promise and be allowed to go away to
happier scenes, while the painful drama was being enacted in
which she shrank from playing her part P

The conviction that such was the state of Marcella’s mind in
the reaction which might be supposed to have followed her first
burst of faith in and sympathy with him heaped fresh fuel on the
fire of the widow's tribulation, but she resolved to do her duty,
and begged Father Daly to speak to the girl on the subject of a
release from her engagement.

Father Daly tried to enter into Mrs. Kilmartin’s views and
admitted that she might be right. It was true that Marcella was
changed, and that she showed an unmistakable cowardice about
going to Dublin which must be attributed to her horror of appear-
ing before the eyes of the world as the affianced wife of a man in
prison under a charge of murder. No doubt the mind of an im-
pressionable girl might almost give way under the pressure of
such circumstances. A pleasant life awaited her could she but
sever herself from the painful associations which at present sur-
rounded her. Already there were many callers at Crane's Castle
to express sympathy with her as one who had been innocently
betrayed into friendship with people so dreadful as the prisoner of
Kilmainham and his mother. Each visit and letter of Miss
O’Donovan put some fresh proof before Marcella of how eagerly
a safe and pleasant world was endeavouring to save her from the

Marcella Grace. 349

consequences of her own rashness. Why should the girl be
supposed to be a heroine merely because she had shown generous
impulses and had not been able to help loving Bryan Kilmartin
whom every one loved ?

To approve of a man while he was safe and well and in an
honourable position was one thing. To cleave to him when he
stood aloof from society, execrated by the crowd, and suspected
by even the most charitable, when standing by him meant pain
and sorrow, and humiliation—Father Daly saw that was quite
another matter. And so he consented to speak to Marcella.

She was walking up and down the path above the rocks as she
was accustomed to do while the priest took her place beside Mrs.
Kilmartin. The day was a glorious one in the end of July, but
the sumptuous colouring of mountain, moor, and water had no
longer meaning or beauty for Marcella, whose eyes saw only where-
ever they turned, the prison walls and barred gates of Kilmain-
ham.

Father Daly joined her and walked up and down with her for
afew minutes trying to keep pace with her restless steps till at
last he said:

“ My dear, the mother and I have been talking about you, and
I want to tell you the conclusion we have come to, if you will
give me your attention. We think you ought not to be asked to
come to Dublin at present, ought not to get yourself mixed up
with this trial.”

“I will not be mixed up in it,” said Marcella, a hectic spot
glowing on her cheek as the familiar dread rose and stared her in
the face, the fear of being confronted with those policemen to
whom she had spoken on the night of the murder, and who, with
the keen shrewdness which she imagined must belong to their
class and office, would be sure to remember her.

Father Daly was shocked into silence. Her cowardice dis-
appointed him. Yet he had made up his mind that she was to
be excused and must do as she pleased, and he would be patient
with her.

“I do not want to be mixed up in it,” she said, “because I
believe no good could be done that way. What would be gained
by the presence of his mother in Dublin? She is not able to visit
him, and she would be more lonely and‘‘afflicted there than here.
My plan is that she should come with me to Crane’s Castle, where
I will nurse her and take care of her till all this trouble passes

over.”

850 Marcella Grace.

Then Father Daly thought she spoke lightly, and he felt less
eompunction for her and spoke a little more of his mind.

“JT think she will go to Dublin, but do not trouble yourself
about that. I will make arrangements for her there. You see
love naturally looks on things with peculiar eyes, and to be near
Kilmainham will be to her a sort of satisfaction. And, my dear,
after a few more days there will be nothing to hinder your return
to Crane’s Castle and to comfortable friends.”

A little wild sob of a laugh broke from Marcella which had
almost been a cry of anguish. It was natural she should be mis-
understood, yet how was she to account for herself? Better be
thought heartless and fickle, than that she should thrust herself into
the danger of being called on to bear witness against Bryan Kil-
martin, to give evidence in the case for his prosecution which he
himself had admitted might prove almost overwhelming. By
hiding among the bogs and mountains she could shield him as she
had shielded him before; by weakly yielding to the temptation to
see him and be near him, and also to clear herself of hateful
suspicion in the eyes of those who also loved him in their own
way, she might prove to be his undoing.

He himself could not suspect her. He would know or guess
the motive of her conduct. In his letters he did not hint at the
danger that was in her mind, and she never dared to put any
allusion to it on paper, lest her letter might be read by other eyes:
than his own.

Yes, let Father Daly see her conduct by the light in which he
had just shown it to her. Let Mrs. Kilmartin abhor her asa
elight thing whose enthusiasm for a noble man had been blown
away by the first breath of the storm. Better even that Bryan
himself should believe her to be untrue than that her voice should
be lifted to condemn him.

She would lie by here, ignored and forgotten, till, the trial over,
the informers confounded, and the absence of all corroborative
evidence having saved the accused from the consequences of their
machinations, he should be set free, acquitted before the world
Better, if he were then to turn away from her as a creature who.
had failed him in the hour of his need, as seeming gold that had
been tried in the fire and proved to be dross, than that, using her
as a tortured instrument, his enemies should prevail.

This thought pressing on her with increasing force hardened’
her resolution, and enabled her to say to Father Daly while that
strange little laugh of hers was still paining his ears:

Marcella Grace. 351

“Of course I-know I am my own mistress, and at Crane’s
Castle I will stay till this is over. If Mrs. Kilmartin will not
stay with me, then I fear she must go alone as you suggest.”

After this preparations were made for Marcella’s return to
Crane’s Castle and Mrs. Kilmartin’s departure for Dublin. How
the poor little mother, who found it difficult to move from one room
to another in her home, should manage to accomplish the journey
was a problem to every one except herself, but she never doubted
that the strength of her love would cut the way for her through
an army of seeming impoasibilities. Meanwhile she and Marcella
spoke less and less together of the subject at both their hearts.
Mrs. Kilmartin had accepted it as a settled thing that the girl,
eager to save herself from being mixed up in a scandal, had retreated
from her position as Bryan’s affianced wife, and would take the
opportunity of his mother’s departure for the city to withdraw all
but a friend’s interest (and perhaps even that too) from those with
whom she had so unfortunately connected herself, not dreaming at
the time of discredit and disgrace.

And still the proofs multiplied that others were able and willing
to help Marcella out of her unhappy dilemma. More cards, invita-
tions, and such tokens of good-will were brought by Miss
O'Donovan to Inisheen, having been left at Crane's Castle for Miss
O'Kelly by the surrounding gentry, good people who drove great
distances to show their willingness to reclaim the heiress of Dis-
tresna, who was so young and who had received a foreign education,
and who ought for all sorts of reasons to be forgiven for having
Aropped into sad mistakes at the very outset of her career.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE INQUISITOR.

Gr was the tourist season, the time of year when the few strangers
who ever find their way into the highlands of Connemara may be
seen climbing on long cars, or standing about looking dissatiafied
and supercilious on the door-steps of country inns and half-way
houses, or can be heard “drawing out” innocent-looking car-
drivers, whose sly answers they accept in the most literal manner,
and whom they therefore do not find so witty as they had been led

to expect.
Fá

352 Marcella Grace.

A gentlemanly-looking man, who appeared to be a tourist, for he
was certainly a stranger, and seemed to have no business in travel-
ling but to gaze about at the scenery and question the driver about
the state of the country, took one morning the seat next the horses
.on the long car from Galway, and made himself as comfortable as
the circumstances would permit. There were two points of evidence
in favour of his being a native of our island, even if a tourist : one
was his rich, rolling, though by no means vulgar brogue, the other
was the fact that he grumbled at nothing that happened. The
splendid weather and the glowing scenery evidently rejoiced him,
and as he presented a cigar to the gladdened driver, it was with an
eye-twinkle of sympathy which had never bean learned on the
thither side of the channel.

This eye-twinkle was only one small outward sign of a curious
power of sympathy possessed by the man, somewhat like the power
by which the snake-charmer is supposed to charm the snake. We
hear in these days a great deal of the strange exercise of volition
by which one person draws another to move from place to place,
but this traveller’s speciality was to induce people to speak their
minds to him truly, whether it was for their interest to do so or
not. Just as the serpent comes forth out of its hiding-place at
the sound of the charmer’s piping, so would the fondly-hidden
thought issue from the lips of the reticent at the will of this appa-
rently uninquisitive and easy-mannered gentleman, and many who
had thoroughly enjoyed his company would, having left it, feel a
sudden reaction leading them to search their memories for their
seorets, much as they might on other occasions feel in their pockets
for the safety of purse and watch.

This being so, Mr. O’Malley, who lived by judicious exercise
of his singular power, and enjoyed the practice of it even in un-
official moments, passed his time very pleasantly during the long
day’s journey into the mountains, and filched more or less informa~
tion which would be useful to him hereafter from his unconscious
fellow-passengers who had no idea that their brains were being,
picked.

At present he was abroad on decidedly official business, but
as a painter on his way to paint the portrait of a great man which
he expects to bring him fame, may beguile his journey by making”
sketches which will work up into future pictures, so did the great
agent of the police make studies peculiar to his own art as he
hastened towards the most promising and interesting. piece of work
which his experienced hands had touched for many a day:

Marcella Grace. 353

He was going to lay hold of an important piece of evidence
in a pending criminal prosecution which it was highly desirable
should end in conviction and punishment of the accused. There
had been some trouble in tracing up this witness, but all that was
over, and now there only remained to claim her assistance for the
prosecution. For it was a woman who held this power in her
hands, and a pretty woman too, as Mr. O’Malley had been credibly
informed.

He put up for the night at a small inn among the mountains,
much to the surprise of the driver, who, disappointed at losing him
for the rest of the journey, tried to convince him that no sport of
any kind was to be found on the spot where he proposed to remain.
However there Mr. O’Malley stayed till morning, when he hired
a small car and started early, accompanied by a quiet-looking man
who had the day before occupied a seat on the opposite side of the
public conveyance and had also passed the night at the inn. Early
in the golden afternoon they left their car at a wayside cottage
which signalled ‘lodging and entertainment for man and beast,”
and walked a mile till they reached the shore of the lake which
encircled Inisheen.

Marcella was sitting, reading to Mrs. Kilmartin on a low seat
by her couch. Neither woman gave her mind to the sense of what
was read, but the mere exercise of pretending to hear and under-
stand, of making believe to turn the thoughts from one ever
present subject, was a sort of necessity for both in the long
monotony of their day in this solitude.

The mother’s brain was busy counting the hours and moments
that must still elapse before she should find herself on the road to
Dublin. The journey was to begin to-morrow, but to-morrow
seemed far away to her impatient expectation. In the meantime,
Marcella’s voice rather irritated than soothed her. She began to
feel that it would be a relief to her to get away from this girl who
so visibly suffered through Bryan’s misfortune, yet had not the
courage to take up her cross and be a martyr for his sake.

Marcella, while she read, simply felt that this reading afforded
her a sort of grasp by which she held herself balanced over a
precipice which might any moment engulf her. The continual
utterance of words, words, words, which bore no meaning to her
mind, were so many jerks which broke the thread of consecutive
thought, and kept it from winding round her throat and strangling
her. She also was aware that it would be a relief to be separated
from the unhappy mother who must be allowed to misunderstand

354 Marcella Grace.

her so terribly, who was going on her lonely way to-morrow, that
to-morrow which would thus sever the link which bound her,
Marcella, in with the daily chain of a slowly unfolding tragedy.
How she was to live after that link had been snapped, and she
found herself alone with her grief and horror in the desert region
of Crane’s Castle, she could not dare to ask herself. And so the
reading went on, more words without meaning, more sound without
sense, anything to make a monotonous noise that should interrupt
thought and forbid conversation, till the little parlour-maid opened
the drawing-room door, and said that a gentleman wanted to see
Miss O'Kelly.

Nothing more unexpected could well have happened to interrupt
the perfunctory reading, for the virtuous county people, with all
their charity towards Marcella, had known where to draw the line
in making their demonstrations, and everyone, even the impatient
Mr. O'Flaherty, had forborne to make a call at Inisheen.

Therefore, if the venerable golden eagle who was supposed to
haunt the topmost crags of Ben-dhu overhanging the lake, had
been found tapping for admittance at the cottage-windows, the
circumstance would not have been more surprising than was this
announcement of a gentleman’s visit.

He was shown in, and, though seen to be a complete stranger,
was invited to take a chair opposite the ladies, for he looked like a
man who had come there for a purpose. Mrs. Kilmartin thought
he might be her son’s solicitor arrived with some comforting intelli-
gence. Marcella had time to think of nothing before meeting the
strange man’s eyes fixed upon hers, full of that latent power of
seeing through thick veils, and luring forth the truth from its
seemingly secure hiding-place, and having met and instinctively
recognised the look, she ‘knew who he was and what errand had
brought him there. The day she had prayed might never rise had
dawned and had already passed its noon. The hour she had
dreaded and hidden from wasathand. It was not at Miss O’Kelly,
the heiress, that this person was looking with that strange con-
ciliating yet pitiless glance which made her suddenly feel as if
stealthy fingers were upon her throat, but at Marcella Grace, the
audacious girl whose daring hands and deceiving tongue had inter-
fered with the law, and upon whom the law would now be revenged.

For one moment she quailed and sickened, and from the depths
of her soul cried to the earth to swallow her ; the next her resolu-
tion had come to her aid and stood as a bar between her-and the
enemy.

Marcella Grace. 355

“Mrs. Kilmartin,” began the visitor, addressing the small
frail woman who sat up on her couch with a glimmer of hope in
the pale blue eyes that strained towards him. “ I am sorry to have
to come here on a painful errand, and I will try to hurt you as
little as possible. My business is with this young lady, and if I
may see her alone it will save you some uneasiness, perhaps.”

“Tf it is anything connected with my son’s affairs I want to
know it at once,” faltered the mother, shuddering under the
-ominous warning of his words. ‘I am the nearest to him, no one
is so near asa mother. Nothing must be hid from me.”

Mr. O'Malley sighed. This white, trembling ghost of a mother
was harder to deal with than the masculine personage for whom
rumour had prepared him. But his time was precious and the
indulgence of sentiment was no way included in the réle of his
duty.

He merely remarked as he took a note-book from his pocket,
“I ahould have preferred to have seen this lady alone. But it
must be as you will.”

Marcella, having rapidly reviewed the position in her mind,
felt that a struggle would be useless, and sat perfectly still,
holding the closed book upright on her knees with both hands, as
if it were the outward form of that barricade which she had erected
and meant to stand, between her and the powers that were set to
destroy Bryan.

“ Now, I must beg of you not to be frightened or annoyed at
anything I am going to say to you, Miss O’Kelly,” pursued the
visitor, as, having glanced over a page of his note-book, he closed it,
keeping his finger in the page, and looked mildly but firmly at -
Marcella. ‘If I ask you questions pray believe that personal
inquisitiveness has nothing to do with them. You and I have both
a duty to discharge, and I rely on you to co-operate with me in a

. matter of very serious and solemn moment, by telling me all that
you remember hearing on the circumstances which I shall suggest
to you.”

Marcella bowed her head, and for one moment drooped her eyes,
only to fix them again on his. Her face had grown sharp and
white during the last few minutea, and only the eyes, dark, wide-
awake, and full of intelligence, seemed to live in it. Lips, brow,
.and chin, were set as if in a swoon.

“T have addressed you by your present name as Miss O’Kelly,
‘but I will now speak to you as Miss Maréella Grace. It was as

856 Marcella Grace.

Marcella Grace that you were concerned in the matter of which I
am now about to question you.”

“There you make a mistake,” said Mrs. Kilmartin, with an
accent of faint triumph. “She is the daughter of a cousin of the
late Mrs. O’Kelly of Distresna and Merrion-square, Dublin. Her
name never was Grace.”

Marcella made no remark, and Mra. Kilmartin sank back on her
cushions exhausted.

Mr. O'Malley glanced at her with sympathy, and then pursued
his examination of Marcella.

“You lived during last January in the large gable house at the
corner of Weavers’-square in the Liberties of Dublin ? You lived
there with your father who was a weaver of poplin?”

Marcella’s lips moved in assent.

“ You remember the night of the 10th of January?”

“Yes, I remember it well. The police roused my father and
me from our rest and demanded to search the house. My father
was angry, but had to submit because of the Coercion Act. The
police searched and went away, having found nothing they were
looking for.”

There was a burning light in her eyes now, and the colour had
come into her lips again. Her glance never flinched as she made
her statement.

‘Is that all you remember of the night of the 10th of January
last. Try and think about it a little. Did you not admit any one
that night at an unusual hour.”

“No.”

“Indeed! ‘You are sure of that P No one knocked at the door
-as you were sitting up late at your work and asked for shelter?”

“No one.”

Mr. O'Malley looked at her silently for a few moments, then
said “Ah!” and again reflected a little as he knit his brows over
his note-book.

«There is a secret closet in that house in which you were then
residing, Miss O’Kelly,” he continued presently, as if he had been
quite satisfied on the other point and had let it go.

“Yes.”

“ You did not show it to the police that night when they were
making their search, nor tell them of its existence?”

“No.”

“You were quité sure no one was hiding in it on that

san”

occasion.

Marcella Grace. 357

“ Yes.”

Mr. O'Malley made an entry in his book, and again resumed
his questions as if quite content with the answers he had already
received. .

“Now, tell me, when did you first learn that a murder had
been committed on that night of the 10th, not far from the street
in which you lived?”

“My father told me the next morning. We knew nothing of
it till he brought the paper in.”

The terrible questioner closed his book and leaned back slightly
in his chair, while he fixed his quiet observant gaze on those tor-
tured burning eyes of hers, and lowered his voice with a swift
glance at the motionless form of the mother, who lay, whether
listening or not it were hard to tell, and made no sign as the inquisi-
tion went on. .

“ Now, Miss Grace, I want you to tell me what was the special
cocasion on which you first made the acquaintance of Mr. Bryan
Kilmartin?”

“I met-him at the St. Patrick's Ball at Dublin Castle, where
my relative Mrs. O’Kelly introduced me to him.”

““ And never before that night ?”

“Never.”

Mr. O'Malley made no remark, but sat looking at her with that
gentle penetrating gaze under which her heart froze and burned.
with the pain of her falsehood. And while he observed her he was
thinking :

“She lies bravely, but the lie will destroy her. When atruth-
ful spirit consents to falsehood, there is war between body and soul.
Even if we had no case to be completed by her evidence she must:
be got to speak the truth, to save her own life or reason.”

He drew the strap across his note-book, and took up his gloves-
as if all were over and he was going, but as he stood up, hat in
hand, he suddenly said:

“ And you are prepared to swear that on the night, and in the
hour of Mr. Ffont’s murder you did not admit Bryan Kilmartin
secretly into your house, did not listen to his prayer for shelter,
did not hide him in that secret closet, nor liberate him from it the
next morning early, long after the fruitless visit of the police who
were searching for him? You are prepared to swear all this if
need be?”

“J am.”

“That is all, then. I will not trouble you with any more

858 Marcella Grace.

questions for to-day. But I must tell you, Miss Grace, that unplea-
sant as I fear it will be to you, you will be summoned and will be
bound to appear on the trial of Bryan Kilmartin, and you are
expected to give evidence in accordance with the circumstances I
have stated to you, and which are believed to be facts.”

Marcella had also stood up, and had never removed her unhappy
eyes from his face. When he quitted the room which he did with
a certain polite abruptness, she followed him to the hall-door,
where he turned and looked at her inquiringly, encouraging her
to speak whatever thought was struggling within her for utter-
ance.

She advanced a step to him, her hands outstretched : the spell
of this man’s strange power was upon her, urging her to tell him
everything, to claim his help, hiscounsel. He looked strong, kind,
sympathizing, he would rid her of this torturing lie that was
already eating her heart, he would guard her confidence, and
advise her as to what course of conduct might be best for her in
Bryan’s interests.

Seeing her thoughts in her face, O'Malley stepped back across
the threshold, removing his hat again and taking her kindly by
the hand. .

“You have something more to tell me,” he said; “speak, do
not be afraid. You are not one to live through the part you have
undertaken. Have mercy on yourself.”

But at the same moment Marcella regained her presence of
mind, and by force of will broke the spell to which she had nearly
yielded.

“TI have lived through trouble already,” she said. “I can
live through more. I have spoken, and I have nothing to add.
But will you not come in and take some refreshment? If Mr.
Kilmartin were—at home,” she said, forcing a bright smile, “if
he were in his rightful place, he would not let you go in this inhos-
pitable fashion. Neither would his mother, but she is ill——”

“Thank you, I have ordered lunch not far away, and I will
torment you no more to-day,” he answered, pitiful of her scorched
eyes that seemed, in spite of her words and bearing, to moan to
him to go. And so he left her and went rapidly towards the boat
-where his henchman was awaiting him.

Then, Marcella went back to the drawingroom, still strong in
her knowledge that she had baffled Bryan’s enemies, that she had
denied them the morsel of evidence they were hungering for,
that she had broken the chains they were forging, and overthrown

Marcella Grace. 859

their plots, and that, though she died of the pain of her sin, she
would set him free.

Mrs. Kilmartin was sitting upright on her couch; watching for
the girl’s return, and immediately began to talk to her.

“What did that dreadful man mean by asking you such
extraordinary questions, MarcellaP And tell me what you
answered him. My mind is so confused. It seemed to me he
mistook you for somebody else. And yet you allowed him to
suppose you were somebody else. I think I was in a kind of
swoon part of the time, so that I did not follow all that was
said.”

“He did not mistake me for any one else, mother. He has
found out who I am, who I was, that is all. I had hoped they
would not find me out. But it has not done them any good—
their tracking me.”

“I do not understand you in the least. Ho called you Mar-
cella Grace. Was that ever your name?”

“It is my real name. I might have told you so any day, only
it seemed so unnecessary, and there were one or two good reasons:
for not bringing it forward.”

“And your father? Did that man not say that your father
was a weaver of poplin P”

“He said so. And it was true. My father and I were very
very poor until Mrs. O'Kelly found us. It was by my mother,
my poor young mother who had made a strange kind of marriage
through reverse of fortune, that Mrs. O'Kelly was related to
me. She did not wish it known that we were exactly what she’
found us.”

“ Nothing surprises me now,” said Mrs. Kilmartin, pathetically.
“ And it does not matter, except that you might have confided in
me. But what,” she went on, putting her hand to her head, “ what
did he mean by asking you about the police searching your house
on the night of the murder, and about where you hid Bryan?
You said you never saw him till the night of the St. Patrick’s
Ball, and you held to that. It was true, Marcella, was it not?

” Look me in the face and say it was true.”

There was an agony in her eyes that Marcella could not lie to.
She dropped on her knees and pressed the mother’s cold hand to
her own burning eyes.

“It was not true. I had seen Bryan before. I have denied:
it to them, but I cannot go on deceiving you. I have sent him
away bafiled, that man, but I know he has not done “with me. He:

860 Marcella Grace.

-will come back, they will set on me, now they have got the clue,
and I shall be worried and torn like a hunted animal. But they
shall not get the truth from me, the wicked, false truth that would
pretend to make Bryan guilty. So never fear, mother, I will not
tell. Only I must speak truth to you when you look at me like
that ——”

“Where had you seen him P”

“You heard it said. That dreadful man with his kind eyes
and his gentle voicehe told it all in your presence, but maybe you
did not hear him. How they got the information I cannot guess,
for even my father did not know what happened.”

“ What happened ?”

“I was sewing late at night, that hateful night. I was a
poor, a very poor girl, sewing to earn sixpence. My father had
gone to bed. He was weak and old, and failing from his work,
and I was almost in despair because I could earn so little. I
heard a knock at the door and a man asked to come in, and it was
Bryan. I had never seen him before, but in amoment I saw what
he was. I let him in because of the tone of his voice, and I hid
him because of the look in his face. And after he was hid safely,
the police came and searched, and did not find him, and went
away. And my father was angry at the disturbance, because he
knew nothing about a man’s being hidden in his house. Very
early in the morning I let Bryan out of the closet, that closet you
heard mentioned, and he went away. And afterwards I met him
at the Patrick’s Ball, but he did not know me though I knew him.
And he never knew me all the long time I have been here, until
they came to take him from us, and he told me that a girl who had
hidden him that night in Weavers’-square, might give the most
telling evidence that could be produced against him. Then I
told him who I was, that his mind might be at rest ——”

An ashen look had been creeping over Mrs. Kilmartin’s face
while she listened. The strange information just given only meant
one thing for her. Marcella’s confession as to her own antecedents
scarcely touched her. If the girl had told her she had been, before
coming to Inisheen, a beggar, craving alms in the street, or a royal
princess standing beside a throne, she would have felt no surprise.
One only and terrible thought had taken possession of her as she
listened: what brought Bryan into hiding on such a night and at
such an hour P

“You took him in?” she muttered, “you hid him. Bryan
Kilmartin hiding because a murder had been done! Did he tell

Harcella Grace. 361

you why he hid, what had brought him there? My God, girl,
speak! Tell me the rest or you will kill me.”

“I do not know the rest,” said Marcella, with dry lips. “I
never asked him. I would not ask him, unless he chose to tell me—
not ina hundred years, whatever brought him there, it was nothing
wrong. That much he said, though it was not necessary to me to
hear it.”

Mrs. Kilmartin stared at her dumbly, with a look that asked a
terrible question, a question that Marcella would not see.

“I must know why Bryan hid that night. I am his mother,
end I must know. I cannot live on quietly like anybody eleo—
like you—without having so terrible a mystery cleared up. The
Fenians did the murder no doubt, and Bryan wasa Fenian. I
brought him up to it. I filled him with romantic love for his
country, and I did not know what I had done till I found he had
rushed, child as he was, headlong into the arms of a secret society.
He thought to shake himself free of them, but they have had him
in their clutches. How do I know what they have not compelled
him to do——P”

Her voice sank into a terrified whisper, while the look of
horror deepened and widened in her eyes.

“I do not know what you mean,” said Marcella, coldly.

The mother hid her face and moaned.

“ You must know what I mean. You shall know what I mean.
I cannot bear such a burden alone. I shall go mad in an hour if
you do not help me under this fear —— ”

“ You mean that you doubt he may be guilty.”

“OQ God! O God! that I should endure to hear you
say it!”

“You, his mother! Yes, indeed, you ought to be ashamed,”
eaid Marcella. “ You who nursed Bryan Kilmartin on your knee
and brought him up to be a man, and knew his thoughts, and his
actions, and his aspirations, to turn and be a traitor to him because
of a little base, lying, circumstantial evidence. Oh, I thought
Bryan had a mother who loved and believed in him; and, poor
fellow, he so believed in you, and was so thankful to you for edu-
cating him as you did, was so proud of your devotion to Ireland
and to your poor fellow-creatures, so glad that you had taught him
early to think more of the sufferings of others than of his own
ease; and you reward him for all this trust by harbouring such a
hideous doubt of him. You imagine that he, who had courage to
go out a mere boy to learn to use his gun in honourable warfare for

362 Marcella Grace.

a glorious cause, could afterwards, in his mature manhood, be
coward enough to strike another man to death in the dark.”

“Spare me,” wailed Mrs. Kilmartin, “ spare me.”

“You have not spared yourself,” said Murcella, scornfully. “I
am only a poor girl, and it is not a year yet since I first knew
Bryan; but such a detestable thought of him could never have
entered my head; and you his mother !—his mother I— Just
heaven! what will the-world say when she can doubt him P”

“You do not know the horrors of the working of a secret
society,” persisted the mother ; but something of the maddened ten-
sion of her gaze had relaxed, as she followed with hungry eyes every
movement of Marcella’s eyes and lips while she reproached her, as
if life, and health, and hope, were all being rained down on her
with the scorn from the girl’s face and voice; “you do not know
how pitiless orders are given, and how death follows at once if
they are not carried out.”

“ I have heard of it,” said Marcella, “and Bryan is one who
would have unflinchingly accepted the doom of disobedience
He would have refused to kill, and would have died.”

“ His oath,” murmured the mother.

“ Had been retracted. He had separated himself from Fenian-
ism long before—he is the victim of the vengeance of a secret
society for having deserted it. If he dies, he will die a martyr,
even though his own mother ”

A cry broke from Mrs. Kilmartin, and she broke into wild weep-
ing. Marcella was on her knees by her aide in an instant.

“O mother! mother! why will 'you torture your own heart
and mine imagining impossibilities? He will be safe because he
is innocent.”

“My darling!” sobbed the mother, holding her to her heart, “you
have conquered for me. You have driven the demon away from
me. Never again shall such a maddening fear get possession of
me; you are worthy to be his wife, Marcella, and —I—have been
wronging you too.”

“I know you have,” said the girl, quietly, “ but this dreadfuk
thing that I have feared has come to make us understand each
other better. Now that it has come, I have met the worst, and we
will go to Dublin; I shall not be afraid of being seen in the streets
now that they know me and have followed me here; I shall have
to go to the front and defy them.”

‘Then followed long explanations, in which Marcella made the
mother understand the motives which had been at work in her;

Marcella Grace. 363

and, after all had been said and realised, Mrs. Kilmartin remained
aghast at the girl’s quiet resolution to deny the truth that would
lie to condemn Bryan.

The idea remained fixed in her mind, “They shall not get it
from me, that morsel of cruel evidence which they would distort to
their own purposes ; I, only, hold it in my hand. They may kill me,
but they shall not have it.”

The very next day a document arrived, in which she was for-
mally summoned to appear on the trial, which was to take placein
December, as a witness in support of the case of the Crown against
Bryan Kilmartin for the murder of Gerald Ffrench Ffont, on the
night of the 10th of January.

“They are determined to have me,” she said, “and they shall
get me. I will be there, never fear, and if I live I will foil them.
Good God ! to think of their setting on a man like Bryan to destroy
him, and making use of me to carry out their purpose. Come,
little mother, cheer up. Without me they are powerless to hurt
him, or they would not make such a fuss about getting me, and I
will foil them or I will die—JZ witl die.”

She sat down and wrote her orders concerning her change of
plans. The house in Merrion-square was to be opened up, and
Miss O'Donovan was to accompany her to Dublin, or to remain
at Crane’s Castle, whichever she pleased. Miss O'Donovan elected
to go to Dublin. Where a great sensation was going on, there
Miss O’Donovan liked to be, and the coming trial, with all its
peculiar circumstances, promised to be a great sensation. Miss
O'Donovan had greatly improved in condition since last shehad
appeared in Dublin, in the character of an impoverished gentle-
woman. Her wardrobe had been plentifully and elegantly re-
plenished, and she had the use of more pocket-money than ever
she had enjoyed in her life before. In and about Dublin she had
hosts of friends, and she foresaw that a pleasant and exciting
season was awaiting her; yet she was not at all unkind in her
nature, and she liked both Bryan and Marcella.

“ Miss O'Donovan will come, mother, and she will stand between
us and the world, I know ; that part of it will be congenial to her.
She will see all dear Mrs. O’Kelly’s old friends, who will come to
look me up and to pay me attention, and to find out what my con-
nection really is with this trial. She will shake her head with
them and say ‘yes, yes, you remember what this house was; it is
ead to find it fallen into such hands; yet she is not a bad girl,
only there is a taint in her blood, through her belonging; a ón one

Vou. x11, No. 145,

364 Harcella Grace.

side, to the people; and the Kilmartins are not quite bad either,
only both mother and son are mad on one point.’ ”

Bo Marcella would talk, bustling about getting ready for the
journey for Dublin, making all Mrs. Kilmartin’s preparations for
leaving Inisheen, while the poor little mother watched her with
fascinated eyes and a frozen heart, hardly venturing to ask her-
self would this girl really dare to perjure herself to save Bryan ?
She must not be allowed to do it; she could not be suffered to do
it; and yet who was to stop her if she determined to stand up in
the witness-box and swear a lie? No eye saw that occurrence
between them that night; it was all a secret lying with her and
him and God. If she wounded her own moral nature to set him
free, who could prevent her, what should spring up to contradict
her?

Then the same thought came to Mrs. Kilmartin that had
crossed the mind of the terrible inquisitor of the police, that the
girl would die of her sin.

“ And if she did so die and go to God to be pardoned because of
the source of her sin in love, and its expiation in agony,” asked
the mother’s hungry heart that craved for her child, “ would not
Bryan still be free—Bryan who was not guilty but innocent;
would not the widow's son come back to her cleared of impossible
guilt before the world P And there were other women to love
him, as fair and as sweet as Marcella, though maybe not so ter-
ribly strong in their love. That great strength in women was not
always desirable, not always lovable in the eyes of men.”

And then the unhappy mother flung up her hands and fell on
her face before heaven, and craved mercy for having dreamed
such wicked dreams, and cried aloud for courage to thrust the de-
sire for evil out of her tortured soul.

C 365)

THE SACRISTAN OF ROUMANIA.

BY MARIAN 8. LA PUY.

CROSS Roumania’s perilous wold
The horses fleet are hasting ;
‘The stare burn pale ; the crescent cold
‘With each swift hour is wasting.
Frosty the air; the crystal ground
Breaks with the hoof's light tread ;
And life and death are in each bound
‘That bears the low rude sled.

White-haired the priest, with furrowed brow,
And eye where Heaven dwelleth ;
Hands clasped on heart, and head bent low,
Another Presence telleth !
A gentle boy doth guide the rein—
O fair as angels be!
is eyes flash as they skim the plain, us
Of dying soul thinks he;

Of soul unshrived—each sinful year
Dark spirits fast unrolling ;

He starts: “ My Father, dost not hear
Far off the death-bell tolling P”

“Nay, child, God wills that soul we save! ” —
Hark to that echoing yell!

The wolves! near, nearer still they rave
And how! like fiends from hell.

Like lightning spring the trembling steeds—
Closer their foes are flying—

“ God save us, child! Sore, sore our needs,
For we, too, are the dying.”

Around them press the murderous bands,
Struggling they mount the sled ;

‘The youth quick knelt—with clasped hands,
“Father, absolve me!” said.

‘Then ‘mid the wolfish pack he sprang ;
They close in hordes around him ;

Not long he feels the deadly fang,
‘The martyr's wreath has crowned him.

Fast speeds the sorrowing priest; the soul
Another died to save,

Goes forth robed in the snowy stole
Which Christ’s dear Passion gave,

366 Hints fo Students.

O'er crimsoned snow and mangled bones,
Angels their watch are keeping ;
Morn breaks; a crowd, ‘mid stifled mous,
Kneel, while the pale priest weeping,
With reverent hand each relic lays
“Upon the virgin bier:
Then soft the chant for martyra raise
Aselow they disappear.

A marble cross to passers by
Now tells the touching story -
Of one who could as bravely die
As heroes crowned with glory.
And children, at their mother’s knee
Still hear with faces wan,
How cruel wolves to Heaven eet free
Their Angel Sacristan.

HINTS TO STUDENTS.

[We recur to the “ Answers to Correspondents” in the old Watton
for some replies and suggestions to inquiring students, which are
not perhaps yet out of date. ]

“ Zero,” Cork.— Books alone will not do, though you had the Brit-
ish museum. The book that is within your reach is well worth all the
rest—it was the only one the fathers of poetry possessed—the book
of nature. You have sailed down the noble river that Spenser described
three hundred years before you saw it, as surrounding Cork “like a
sea.” Was not this seeing nature under one of her finest and
most impressive forms? And you have looked from Oove-hill over the
giant harbour, and seen the strange ships sail in between the jutting
necks of land, that seem to meet in an embrace, enclosing the sea in an
emerald ring: there are few finer sights in Ireland. And there, too,
is Blarney Castle within an 'hour's drive of you. It will teach you
what the baronial castles of Irish nobles were when they were armed
chiefs, not laced lacqueys of the Court. Do not despair—Nature is
everywhere. We fear your list of books is already too long, butsome
time or other you ought to plunge into Oarlyle’s “ Sartor Resartus '”
(his own experience, under a strange fiction); Oarleton’s ‘Traits and
Stories ;” Banim’s “ Tales of the O'Hara Family ;” Moore's “ Captain
Rock,” (his history is poor); Miss Bremer’s Novels, (for sketches of
domestic life): Thierry’s ‘‘ Norman Conquest” (to see how picturesque
history may be made); Retzsch’s “ Illustratioas of Faust or Shake-

Hints to Students. 367

peare” (to become familiar with graceful art); or better still, Flax-
man’s “Designs.” But again we repeat, all will be vain without
the sky, and the sea, and the green fields, and the waving trees, and
the grand mountains, and God's people, who live among them fresh and
earnest lives, far away from the city.

“ Zero” —We should be glad to write you a lecture upon the nature of
poetic training (which does not mean trying to think) in answer to your
frank and exceedingly agreeable letter, which has just come to hand,
looking and smiling like an early spring flower. But, alas! we have
a particular engagement with the Attorney-General. However, if you
will tell us what poets you have read—what criticism upon poetry (if
any) you are familiar with—whether you have looked into the essays of
Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, and Southey, or the exquisitely discriminated
and almost scientific treatise on the nature and structure of poetry ;pre-
fixed to Wordsworth’s poems, we will know whether you have anything
to learn that we can teach, and find time to write it by-and-by. Extend
your acquaintance with the poeta, by adding to your list Wordsworth,
Keats, Southey, Coleridge, and the old and new ballads—your histori-
ceal knowledge by a study of Lingard, Thierry, Arnold, (Rome,) Car-
lyle’s French Revolution, and Bancroft’s American. Also, if you can
get hold of them, read the Chronicles of Froissart, De Commines, and
Monstrelet, and do not omit the historians (though they be bad ones)
of your own country—MacGeoghegan, Leland, Moore, Plowden, &¢.
Read some travels—Clarke’s (in Russia,) Park’s, (in Africa,) Chateau-
briand’s, (in Syria,) and especially all Burckhardte, but noí Lamar-.
tine's; read also such books as Elphinstone’s “Caubul” and Laing’s
“Norway” and anything of Humboldt’s that you can lay hands upon.
And read Lyell’s Geology (his larger work,) and—but we have given
you a list already that may oooupy your time for two or three years
not unprofitably. .

“Two Btudents."—We have no ambition to decide such moot
points ; but since you will have it so, we are clearly of opinion that
the Hdinburgh Review has been an abler and more valuable periodical
for the last fifteen or twenty years than for the earliest years of its
existence. Abler and more interesting, but by no means so influential ;
for the despotism of quarterly reviews over the republic of letters has,
voased. The early numbers contain papers of exquisite wit (and very
mean sentiment) by Sydney Smith; clear, piquant, agreeable, and
shallow criticiems on men and books by Jeffrey ; trenchant and slashing
articles by Brougham (like his whipping of the boy Byron); lumbering
statistics by excellent Francis Horner, whom everybody loved, and
scarce anybody (we verily believe) read ; Scotch philosophy and inter-
national law by Macintosh ; foreign literature by Lord Holland ——

“Very fine, very learned, and not worth a d—;”
some fascinating gossip about old novelists and new poets (in a vein '
tenderer and ofter than usually belongs to that sullen genius) by poor

368 Hints to Studenta.

William Hazlitt; and more gossip by the true, born, and natural gos-
siper, Leigh Hunt. These are its main charms (for we count little on
Hallam or Allen, and Scott was only a temporary contributor) up to
1826, and in the days of its greatest renown. But since that time the
historical pictures of Macaulay, and the deep and penetrating specula-
tions and subtle criticisms of Carlyle, have added new dominions to
English reviewing. Stephen, Mill the younger, Foster, and others,
have occupied, and in some particulars enlarged, this territory; and
as one or two of the original contributors, Brougham and Smith, for
example, wrote their most effective articles last, we have no hesitation
in preferring the volumes since 1826. But as our “Two Students”
appear to have been judging for themselves, we strongly advise them
to take the dicta of none of these sages. Reviews are very legitimate
reading for men full of employment; but students should go to the
original sources where the reviewers found their materials, and abjure
summaries and results.

““L.” proposes that we should recommend a collection of the works
of the late Dr. Brennan for the “ Library of Ireland.” Heaven forbid!
We know that he has a traditional reputation among old gentlemen in
Dublin; but more vileness, insolence, scurrility, and stupidity, than
compose the Milesian Magazine, have seldom come between two covers.
Wit and humour to dull billingsgate are in the proportion of a unit to
amillion. Watty Cox was a scamp; but his coarseness was redeemed
by true humour. Dr. Brennan was a scamp, and, as far as literature
is concerned, nothing more. It is said he had ability in his profee-
sion, though none of the respectable practitioners were willing to come
in contact with the “wreatling doctor.” Our young readers must not
confound him with Dr. Drennan, the poet of the United Irishmen, a
gentleman and a patriot.

“(A Southern” desires to know why Belfast is sometimes called
the “ Athens of Ireland.” Athens had “long walls ;’ Belfast has a
“Long Bridge.” Athens had an “ Academy ;” Belfast has a “ Royal.
Academical Institution.” Demosthenes uttered Philippics; so does Dr.
Cooke. Athens had a cerameicus; Belfast has an extensive brick
manufacture. There is a river at Athens; and there is also, more-
over, a river at Belfast. Is our correspondent satisfied ?

“ P.” (Cork,) asks who is the Mr. Gifford so frequently referred to
in Lord Byron’s letters ? He was the editor of the Quarterly Review.
He had been originally a shoemaker, wrote a satirical poem on the
small poets of the day, assisted Canning in the “ Anti-Jacobin,” and
was appointed editor of the Quarterly when that journal was started in
opposition to the Edinburgh Review. He is the most venomous and
hateful oritic in English literature, a man of narrow vision, bitter
temper, no sense of the grand or beautiful, and an overweening vanity.
Hazlitt, Keats, Hunt, Moore, Lady Morgan, Barry Cornwall; and a

Hints to Students. 369

host of others, were slandered (for there was more scandal than criti-
cism) by him and his friends in his Review. One reads the articles
now with a hot itching of the palm to thrash the vagabonds who pros-
tituted oriticism to the meanest purposes of party spirit. Byron’s con-
stant deference for him we cannot explain, except on a supposition so
discreditable to his courage that we reject it. That he did respect
Gifford, is, however, wholly impossible to believe.

“ Allus.”—There is no book upon the “domestic manners and
habits” of the Ancient Irish. On their dress you will find some infor-
mation in Ware (Harris's edition), in Spenser's “ View of the State of
Ireland,” in Grose, in “ Walker's Irish Bards,” and in various of the
Archwological Society’s publications. As for a general history of the
island since the conquest, there is none in existence better than
‘Leland’s, and there can hardly be a worse. Moore’s, so far as it goes,
ought to be a great deal better; but we have found it almost un-
readable. . .

“ An Irish Catholic” asks why we recommended a study of Thierry
(amongst other historians) for the perusal of students, seeing that he
is manifestly not an impartial historian. Certainly he is not; but
neither is Hume, MacGeoghegan, or Carlyle—in fact, we scarcely know
whom we should name as impartial. Yet no historical student would
do well to neglect those writers. Our correspondent might remember
that in a review of the last Archmological Tract, we characterised
‘Thierry as “ grossly unjust and prejudiced,” for the very acts of injus-
tice of which our friend complains. Again he asks, in a tone of tri-
umph, whether Thierry is to be relied upon in matters of Irish history P
Certainly not. He consults on that subject hardly any authority but
the very bad one of Sir Richard Musgrave. We never recommended
him for that; but if our correspondent cannot find any qualities in the
writings of Augustin Thierry which make it essential for every histo-
tical student to make himself acquainted with them, then we strongly
advise him to read them again—or, better still, to give up all histori-
cal study, as unsuited to his calibre.

[The Spartan discipline which helped to train the contributors of the
Nation would disgust correspondents in these fastidious days. }

As a somewhat harsh, and mayhap overhasty but very loving
father, regards his children—now boxing the ear of a malapert urchin
for poking fun at his grandmother—now producing a pocketful of
sugar-plums for the good boy who won a “ judgment” shining with
“YV.G.’s,” but always having in view the ultimate good of his interest-
ing charge—eo do we regard our very dear family of contributors.
If, now and then, we use a parent's liberty, and apply the rod, it is
solely because we have more faith in Solomon’s precepts than in Bell
and Lancaster’s—the critic who spares the rod spoils the poet.

“IL.” invites us to “form the public taste in literature,” by accept-
ing the most juvenile contributions, and pointing out their deficiencies.

870 Hints to Students.

That is not the way any branch of knowledge is taught. The artist
is not sent to study bad models, or the schoolboy to copy bad writing.
The best models are set before them, and they are made labour to
approach them as near as possible. Those who do not naturally and
spontaneously attain a certain success in poetry will labour in vain.
Study, training, reflection, are all necessary to perfect a poet, but they
cannot make one; nature ordains her own priests. And it is by no
means necessary or desirable that the country should be covered with
a race of rhyming Arcadians, or that Ireland should become

A land of singing and of dancing claves,
Love-whispering woods and lute-resounding waves.

There is much higher and better work to do; and we have good hopes
of the young men who, instead of rhymes, send us information on
their local antiquities, suggestions for popular projects, or accounts of
the progress of education and organisation in their own neighbour-
hood. The influence of poetry to elevate and civilize cannot be over-
rated; but if there be half-a-dozen men in the country who have the
inspiration and the mission, we would do wisely to leave the work to
them, and betake ourselves to the hundred other tasks within our
reach,

We do not like “‘Slievenamon’s” Onset of Erin; and we are
altogether sick of war-songs in which the old images and phrases are
repeated to weariness. The Sunburst has floated in a thousand ballads,
the Harp has been taken off the Willow ten thousand times, and the
Emerald Gem has flashed in nearly a million of songs of late. Let
our contributors sing the condition of the people, the natural beauties
of the country, her heroic endurance, her gallant struggles, her heroes
past and present, the glorious fate that awaits her, or any of the
thousand subjects which love of country suggests; but there is a
medium in everything, and we find we lose our appetite apace after
reading a score of sanguinary songs of a morning, reeking with the
blood of the Saxon, or the better blood that he has shed.

1f “ J.L,” hopes to produce national songs he must resolutely forget
“Moore's Molodies” and Campbell’s “ Exile of Erin;” the public
have no fancy for their old favourites hashed up with inferior cookery.
Yet three-fourths of the poetry which we receive and reject is of this
cbaracter. It sparkles with ‘‘ emeralds,” “ gems of the ocean,” “ isles
of the sea,” and resounds with “ harp-striking bards,” and “ minstrel:
boys.” No better specimen need be desired than the production before
us. Take a verse :—

“Now I bid you farewell, ancient Isle of the Ocean—
My spirit will pant for your welfare and joy—
May your children no more taste the cup of commotion,
Nor the grim fiend of fury their hours annoy.

Hints to Students. 37F

May your potent Bards strike the strings of the lyre
That carelessly Aangs upon Tara's old hall ;

Tho’ rusted, may they sound the clear golden wire,
And chant a sweet note to the sons of Fingal.”

Let our young friends think for themselves, if there be thought in
them. Models are necessary to form their taste, but they could have
none more unsuitable than polished writers like Moore and Campbell,
with whom no amount of natural talent would enable them to compete
till after long and laborious training. Burns and poor Furlong will
induct them into a better school—a school where there is no melodious
flow of words to persuade them that sound compensates for sense,
and no pedantic ullusions to be misconceived and misapplied.

“T. HLF.” makes the capital mistake of telling the public, in an
elaborate essay, what they know already. The advice which, above
all othera, we would give to a young writer is, to write upon topics
with which he has made himself familiar by the use of his own eyes
and ears. We would rather have a faithful description of the Bog of
Allen, by somebody who clamped turfin it, than an article on the con-
dition of the Chinese Empire by a Fellow of Trinity College, who
never travelled farther than “ Botany Bay,” as we believe our friends
of Alma Mater call their back settlements.

“8.” is a plagiarist. His original song is stolen from “ Paddy’s
Resource.” He “trusts his production will get an early place, as he
takes in Tug Natrox.” He may “take in Taz Nation,” as he says,
but he shall not take in the editor.

The correspondent whom we detected, in a recent number, sending
us as original a song plundered from “ Paddy’s Resource,” ventures
to excuse himself by declaring that he thought it would be useful to
the popular cause to give it circulation. We have heard of “doing
good by stealth,” and blushing to find it fame; but we never antici-
pated such an illustration of the sentiment.

We receive a letter or two every week accusing us of harshness to
our poetic correspondents, and admonishing us that we ought to foster
young genius till it grows into maturity. Quite true; but are we to
foster a sow’s ear, with the hope that it will become a silk purse? We
foster genius or even talent when we can find it, and that, thank
Providence, is abundantly often; but there is not a more pitiable
creature in existence than a man inflicted with the itch of writing verse,
but denied the capacity by nature. We would as soon encourage a
lame man to turn ballet-master as such a one to woo the impregnable
muses.

Devlined “Thilo-Nation.” This gentleman sends us a specimen of
poetry by a boy under sixteen years of age, “to surprise us,” and
has surprised us a good deal, if that will content him. We should.
have thought that the writer was not in his first, but his second ohild-

872 A Soul Question.

hood. We have some notion of reviving the ancient Irish law which
made it imperative on every one aspiring to be a poet to produce at
least fifty poems of his own composition, as well as to recite the entire
of the Breithe Neimhidh: for which latter work we will perhaps,
in mercy, substitute the Spirit of the Nation. “ S——n'r.”—We cannot
accept your “ Posthumous Stories of an Irish Traveller.” Dead men
tell no tales. ‘‘ Zero.” —You may write for an English periodical and
no harm done (unless, perhaps, to the enemy, if your contributions
ehance to be unequal to your reputation—that is to say, if they are
below zero). We respect your doubts, but intreat you to give England
the benefit of them.
“A Patriot’s Song” commencing

“heer up, cheer up, my hearts of oak,”

has precisely the same fault. Would any man in the four provinces
think of addressing his brother in this phrase? It is the idiom of
English sailors, and proper in their mouths; but whoever would reach
the Irish heart, must learn to use the warm, imaginative tones that it
utters and loves.

“A Bard” is not content with lauding Bolivar out of all measure,
but he sings him out of all measures—e sin against the muses to which
we will not be a party.

A SOUL QUESTION.
BY KVELYN PYNE,

HEN He who gave thee roses, gives thee rue,
And presses on thy brow the wreathéd thorn, +
And leaves thee desolate, in wrath and scorn,
And shuts the portal of His pleasaunce to,
So thou without must lie, and hardly through
The deep dark bars may peer: when His dear hand
Clasps thine no more, in life's fair morning-land,
My eoul, in such case, say, what wilt thou do?”

“Since that His dear hand gave it, rue shall be
Set in fair soil, and watered by my tears,
Until its blossoms win » grace for me,
And through the bars His sweetest face appears!”
Dear Lord, the blossowied rue in heart I bear!
Wilt Thou not droop Thine eyes to ace it there F

( a7 )

A TRUE GHOST STORY.

OW unexpectedly at times memory casts its light over the
far and forgotten past, illuminating some stormy peak that
asta a shadow over years, some sunny valley with its quiet group
of dear friends whose faces we see again, whose pleasant voices -
sound in our ears as of old. I have been lately in a musing mood.
“ Came memory with sad eyes,
Holding the faded annals of my youth.”

I meet there some sad, some joyful pages ; I read last night of
the day when I first left home, with tearful eyes, and heart bowed
down. I was away for three years During the seemingly endless
months of those long, long years how I “ mourned the old home
I still should love the best.” The friends so dear to me, the com-
panions and playmates of my childhood, whom I knew since I
could know anything, who were identified with my very being,
the hills up which we ran, the stream by which we played, the
groves through which we wandered, the adventures through which
we went, were often recalled in solitude and silence, and their
memory freshened by many a secret tear. At last the oft-counted,
the long-wished for, but slowly coming day arrived. Home, sweet
home, sounded in my ears and in my heart. How distinctly I re-
member the stages of the long journey. How impossible it would
be to describe my emotion as the road became familiar and the
well-known landmarks came one by one into view. The Four
Mile House, the Two Mile Bush, were joyously recognised and
rapidly passed. With throbbing heart I greeted the great old
eastle flanked by its massive towers clustered with the ivy of cen-
turies, whose every nook and cranny I had often explored, to whose
highest pinnacles I had followed more adventurous spirits many
atime with imminent peril of life and limb. There, too, in the
distance was the Old Gaol,like a castellated fortress, in whose vicinity
were well-known rings for shooting marbles and pegging tops ;
and the venerable abbey with its well remembered tomb of King
Croodearg, guarded so long and so faithfully by his gallowglasses.
Truly no place on all the earth is to me like this old inland town,
as it shone that evening in the glory of the setting sun, asit shines
now in the soft light of memory, with its treasured associations,
endearing recollections, and unforgotten friends whose like I shall
meet no more on the journey of life; not Bagdad with its shrines
of fretted gold, in the days of the good Haroun Alrashchid, not

374 A True Ghost Story.

Camelot with its shadowy palaces and magic hall where Arthur
sat and all his Table Round.

Sage moralists sometimes tell us that it is an illusion to speak
of the days of youth as the happiest of our lives, The youth,
they say, sighs for the time when he shall be a man, free from
tasks and schoolmasters, free to indulge his own sweet will. There
is no doubt that childhood and youth know their own sorrows as
well as manhood and age. But after due pondering it seems tome
that in youth, the joy, the freshness, the freedom from care, are
real; the sorrows, the tears, as the passing clouds and showers
through which the sunshine is already gleaming ; while in the after
years the cark, the care, the load of grief, are permanent and
enduring, enjoyment and forgetfulness of life’s burden, sore and
transient. The troubles of youth may damp our enjoyment for a
moment; the amusements of age may bring us for an instant relief
from the trials of the world.

The most marvellous of poets has observed :—

“Tf all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work,
But when they seldom come they wished for come.”

My holidays had been long and earnestly wished for. They were
now thoroughly enjoyed. Every well-known scene was visited and
revisited. Each day had some new excursion. One beautiful
summer's morning, I remember it well, I set out into the country
with two companions, “turning to mirth all things of earth as
only boyhood can.” We visited a well called Tubber-na-glug,
the Well of the Bells, into which the silver bells of the old abbey
were said to have been lowered by the monks, when the persecutor
drove them from their quiet home of peace and prayer. Through
the crystal water we could see down below certain strong beams
extending from side to side. The legend ran that once when the
water was very low, a Protestant landlord in the neighbourhood
made an attempt to get possession of the long-lost bells. Just as
his man laid his hand on them to attach the grappling apparatus
with which ho was furnished, a fierce serpent darted from a crevice,
whose ugly fangs he barely escaped, by instantly giving the signal
to haul him up. .
. Thence we made our way to Martinstown, a demesne filled with

fine old timber, covered with the thick foliage of leafy June. The
cloudless sky revealed trackless depths of purest azure. The soft
sward was green with the freshest verdure, begemmed with wild
flowers. From tree and brake and sky, the feathered minstrels. of

A True Ghost Story. 376

earth and air poured forth ceaseless floods of liquid melody. I
who knew so well what it was to be pent up in a dark schoolroom,
while out in the beautiful country the sun shone, the birds sang,
and the leaves made music in the breeze, enjoyed myself to my
heart’s content. Having tired ourselves bird-nesting, climbing
trees, leaping, and indulging in other pranks, we at last approached
the old mansion, a large square, lofty, substantial house of three
stories. It had been uninhabited for years. Many of the windows
were broken, some closed with shutters, the lower ones built up with
stones, The hall-door approached by a flight of stone steps, through
whose joints long grass had grown, was also barricaded with large
stones. We examined in detail the front of this deserted hall. We
passed round to the back, and climbing, the garden-wall, saw the
walks covered with weeds and grass, the fruit trees encrusted with
moss and mildew, decay on all around. I turned round and looked
up to one of the top windows, and there, to my utter amazement
and terror, beheld standing at the window an aged man, dressed in
a black cut-away coat. He wore a three-cocked hat, and his skirted
coat was braided with gold. A large black dog was on the window-
sill before him, and his arm was stretched before the dog’s breast,
as if restraining him from leaping down at us. All this was taken
in at a glance. I pointed to the window. The three of us leaped
from the wall, and rushed over “ bank, bush, and scaur,” through
brake and drain. Arriving at the high-road breathless, with clothes
torn, hands and faces lacerated, feet and garments bedraggled with
mire and wet, I asked the other boys if they had seen the
old gentleman and his dog, as I described them. They assured me
they had.

This extraordinary apparition at mid-day, so much at variance
with the ordinary experience, that such unearthly visitors of the
glimpses of the moon, appear only at the witching hour of night,
I really beheld ; or at least I believed that I beheld it, as truly as
any object I had ever seen before. I visited the place lately. The
old house has completely disappeared. Not a trace of it remains,
Of my two companions on that day, one has long since stolen to
his eternal rest. The round earth intervenes between the other
and myself.

For years no doubt crossed my mind that I had actually seen
that ghost. If you ask me if I believe it still, with the know-
ledge and experience of after years, I must confess that I have
devised a theory to explain the apparition. There were ghost
stories connected with the deserted mansion of Martinstown) I

376 A True Ghost Story.

recollected, on reflection, to have heard an old nurse tell, how
when the family had all left and some servants remained, they
were talking one night round the fire in the servants’ hall. Suddenly
they heard a footstep as of one walking down the stairs. Step by
step the foot came until with stately tread there walked jnto the
room an ancient gentleman, with three-cocked hat, cut-away
braided coat, silk stockings, shoes with broad silver buckles, and a
diamond-hilted rapier by his side. He gazed intently for a
moment on the group by the fire, turned slowly round, walked
from the room in the same dignified manner, was heard ascending
step by step to the top of the house and shutting a door behind
him. That was the last night any of the servants stayed at
Martinstown.

The conclusion to which: I afterwards came, looking at my
ghost adventure through the shadows of years that had passed,
was, that some one with a black dog must have been in the house
at the time ; that he came to the window and looked out at us, and
that to my mind’s eye he assumed even to the minutest particular
the appearance of the old gentleman whose apparition I had heard
described years before, but of whom I had no conscious thought
at the time. It may be asked how I account for my two com-
panions having witnessed exactly the same apparition. The only
answer I can give is that they beheld the man and dog, and that
it was only in answer to my questions they agreed as to the cocked
hat and braided coat.

At times I am not at all satisfied with this explanation of the
adventure, and am inclined to have recourse to the old oft-quoted
Shaksperian adage: “ There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than have been dreamt of in thy philosophy.” After
all, is not the incredulity which wisdom and experience bring, in
many ways a loss rather than a gainP How much more interest-
inga ruined mansion was to me in those days when I could believe
some room of it still tenanted by such an ancient gentleman in his
old-fashioned dress, the appropriate genius loci, the very embodi-
ment of the many men of note of his family who had presided
over the hospitable board, and issued red-coated, booted, and
spurred from the ruined portals of this once noble hall! There he
remains concentrating in himself the history and traditions of his
race, mourning the bright eyes now closed for ever, which lent
light to those mouldering halle, the sweet voices, now for ever
silent, which rang joyously through those decaying corridors, the
fair forms whose pictures have long since faded from the walls:

. J. J. K.

€387)

MISS TYNAN'8 “LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE,” &c.

IS, the first volume Miss Katharine Tynan has given to the’

world (though her name is dear and well-known to all
magazine readers) is a very remarkable one in itself, and doubly
so as the production of a young girl; the quiet mastery over her
art, the perfect strength and subdued richness of colouring, the
holy tenderness of thought, and the perfection of rhythmic con-
struction which this young poet shows, are as rare as delightful.
We find in Mies Tynan’s book neither the blind idolatry of some
special form of authority, nor the mad raving against all consti-
tuted law and order, neither the contempt for beautiful form, nor
the worship of mere technical perfection, by which so many poets
of the present day deform noble work : but we do find real poetry,
and we mean by real poetry, beautiful thought clothed in beautiful
denguage ; all other sense we maintain to be false anddishonouring, ~
not only to the divine art, but to the critic who gives it, and strives
thus to clothe the corpse of foul or trivial thought in the kingly
raiment of fair speech. Poetry should insensibly lead us (as all
true beauty does and must) tenderly, softly, to yearnings and
strivings for something beyond this little life of ours, wherein we,
even the happiest of us, are constrained to cry with bowed heads
and streaming eyes, to the Comforter promised to us, yet who seems
to our cold faithless hearts to tarry unduly. The poem giving its
name to Miss Tynan’s book, is a wonderfully tender and realistic
picture of poor Louise de la Valliére, the girl who had sinned
through too great faith in a faithless king. We can see her as we
read, kneeling at the foot of a Calvary, just at the mystic miser-
able hour when

“ Comes a new day; now pealeth near and far,
ending the silence with its clamorous jar,
The midnight bell. ‘Thy set-dead face, Beloved !
Glimmereth in the darkness like a star.

We see her trembling with cold and fear, for
Things walk in dreams 't wore deathly fair to meot.”

She clings to the cold feet of Him who alone can help and save"
her, and in thought goes back to her innocent girlhood, hoping.

378 Miss Tynan's “ Louise de la Valliore,” we.

that, if she watches through the haunted night hours, when the
blessed daylight comes,

“My feet will go in dreams
Down by Touraine’s fair fields and pleasant streams,
Where my white girlhood’s fall fleet days were spent,
There the breeze freshens, and a great sun gleams.

Like little white-winged birds that flattering fly,
Lustrous small clouds come sailing down the sky,
And the great cattle, breathing thymy sweet,
Stand “here gold cowslips in the grass are high.

Cherries are ripe and red-lipped in the nets,
And the old pear-tree that its youth forgeta,
Hoary with lichen, stands with aged feet
Deep in a purple mist of violets.”

‘This is exquisite. And then the bitter thought welling up in the
mind of the heart-broken, desolate woman, that all these fair things
sere hors, and might have been hers still.

“Surely, these things had brought me full content,
Were I Louise clear-eyed and innocent,
Fifteen unsullied summers ‘neath the skies,
I am Louise, sinner and penitent.”

But alas! she had forgotten in the delirious dream of a transi-

tory passion, the One who alone could keep her “clear-eyed and
innocent; now she remembers :—

“ But my heart heard Thee calling through the years,
Though I had turned away and closed mine ears.
O'er the world’s noise Thy cry came clear and sweet,
Sure Thou art gracious to sinner’s tears.”

And finally after a beautiful description of death :—

“ Flame-shod, but garmented with grey is he,
Thy messenger, Thy fair strong angel, Death,—

the poem closes in Rosetti’s perfect words “ with sudden music of
pure peace ;” for Louise whispers through her tears, clinging yet
closer to the feet of the Crucified Saviour,

“Tam but this, a broken reed that He
Hath bound with His strong fingers tenderly.
Lord! where Thy Father's many mansions shine,
‘Wilt ‘Thou not keep a last least place for me? ”

Hiss Tynan's " Louise de la Vallitre,” &e. 879

After this stately yet sorrowful poem, let us turn to the triumphant
Yove-music of “ King Cophetua’s Queen,” one of the strongest and
most beautiful things in the volume. Listen to this, the opening
“verse :—
“ Hore shall wo stay. ‘The terrace walk is cool;
Yonder thy palace towers rise silver-clear ;
From the dim city, grey and beautiful,
Snatches of song we hear.”
‘Or this :-—
“ And the night comes with misty glimmering feet
Wet from wan waterways in some cool world,
Shadowed and still: and where her heart doth beat,
A crescent moon lies curled.”
How delicious it is! How Rossetti would have loved to paint
a conception like this! We feel sure Miss Tynan is a loving and
reverent student of Rossetti, and we should imagine also of Keats,
though there is nothing imitative or borrowed in her poetry. It is
‘merely the manner of looking at the things created, not the creations
themselves that recall these two great masters. But to continue ;
~«‘ King Cophetua’s Queen,” who is nameless in the poem (indeed,
“what name were sweet enough for her as portrayed by Miss Tynan?)
tells the king, as they wander beneath the crescent moon, of her
lonely girlhood drawn ever towards this hour of supreme bliss by
“... . wonderful grave eyes!
‘That drew me all my days to this one day,
Lighting my feet to thy love's mysteries
‘Through moonlees nights and grey, —”
cand haunted by a dusky face that came to her in dreams, and
whispered of one who waited in the south; and so she turned
“southwards :
“ And as I went, thine eyes starred all the way,
‘Their sudden splendours made my heart rejoice,
And in mine ears rang clear the livelong day
‘The gold notes of thy voice.
So did I hear the birds sing in the bowers,
‘Where no birds were or bowers, in the desert blind,
And walked knee-deep in blooming meadow-flowers,
Blown by a cool wet wind.”
After a very lovely description of her arrival at the king’s palace,
“the poem closes with the rapture of happy love:
“ We are alone beneath the mystic sky,
Hand clasped in hand, and heart-beat to heart-beat,
Together, thou and I.”
Vou. x1m., No. 145. 29

-

380 Hiss Tynan’s “ Louise de la Valkiere,” &e.

‘We have noticed theee two poems at some length because we con—
sider them the finest; but “ My Lady” is supremely tender, and
most lovely in theme and treatment ; we feel, as we read it, the-
blown fragrance of wild roses wafted to our nostrils, and the-
simple pathos of the first lines, in which is compressed a whole-
life-history :

“She, my sweet, pale lady, goeth down
‘Through the grey atreete of the wicked town,
And her steadfast face a shadow hath
For the sin and pain about her path "—

brings tears to our eyes of very love and reverence.

“ Little children hail her coming sweet,
God’s dear dumb things gather round her feet,
The pocr heart that bitter trouble sears,
Melts at her soft words in healing tears.

As she goes, she sets no hearts astir,

Yet I think the sunshine follows her,

Besting on her broad brows, loving-wize,

And her wistful mouth, and brave grey eyes.”

Anything more beautiful than the two lines we have italicised has-
seldom been written: they touch us like the sudden singing of a
bird, or the first spring violet, and make an exquisite picture of
a woman, by a woman.

As our extracts from Miss Tynan’s longer poems have neces-
sarily been fragmentary, it seems right to give one piece entire ;
and we choose it among those of which the inspiration is more-
directly religious. Hire is the cry of “ A Tired Heart :”

w Dear Lord ! if one should some day come to Thee,

‘Weary exceedingly, and poor, and worn,
With bleeding feet sore-pierced of many a thorn,

And lips athirst, and eyes too tired to eee,
‘And, falling down before Thy face, should sag:
“Lord, my day counts but as an idle day,

‘My hands have garnered fruit of no fair tree,
‘Empty am Iof stores of oil and corn,
Broken am I and utterly forlorn,

Yet in Thy vineyard hast Thou room for me ??

‘Wouldst turn Thy face away P
Nay, Thou wouldst lift Thy lost sheep tenderly.

Miss Tynan a “ Louise de la Valliore," &e. 381

“Lord! Thou art pale, as one that travaileth,

And Thy wounds bleed where feet and hands were riven ;
Thou hast lain all these years, in balms of Heaven,

Since Thou wert broken in the arms of Death,
And these have healed not!’ ‘Child! be comforted.
T trod the winepress where thy feet have bled ;

‘Yea, on the Cross, I cried with mighty breath,
Thirsting for thee, whose love was elsewhere given,
I, God, have followed thee from dawn to even,

With yearning heart, by many a moor and heath,

‘My sheep that wanderdd!
‘Now on My breast, Mine arm its head beneath.’

“Then, if thie stricken one cried out to Thee,
“Now mine eyes see that Thou art passing fair,
And Thy face marred of men beyond compare,”

And so should fall to weeping bitterly,
With, “ Lord, I longed for other love than Thine,
And my feet followed earthly lovers fine,
Turning from where Thy gaze entreated me ;
‘Now these grow cold, and wander otherwhere,
And I, heart-empty, poor, and sick, and bare,
Loved of no lover, turn at last to Thee ; '—
Wouldst stretch Thine hands divine,
And stroke the bowed head very pityingly P

«Will not My love suffice, though great thy pain?”
“Ah, Lord! all night without a lighted house,
While some within held revel and carouse,
‘My lost heart wandered in the wind and rain,
And moaned unheard amid the tempest’s din.’
“ Peace, peace! if one had oped to let thee in,
Perchance this hour were lost for that hour's gain;
Wouldst thou have sought Me then, with thy new vows P
Ah, child! I too, with bleeding feet and brows,
Knocked all the night at a heart's door in vain,
And saw the dawn begin,
On my gold head the dews have left a stain.””

We would fain linger over every poem in the small book—too
emall, far too small for our wishes, and it is not often we find
ourselves thinking that—but space forbids, and we must content
ourselves with merely mentioning the exquisite sonnets, Charles
Lamb and Fra Angelico at Fiesole—the two fine dramatic studies
Vivia Perpetua in Prison and Joan of Arc, and a number of beauti-
fal poems of more marked religious character like the one just
quoted. Many of these are very lovely, and deserve a notice to
themselves; Fuint-Hearted is perhaps our favourite from the
amber clearness and sweetness of thought, and diction.. |. We

382 For the Last Time.

should think Miss Tynan when writing these poems must have
experienced what in her own fine words she ascribes to Fra
Angelico:
“Looking from his work a minute's space,

The sudden blue eyes of an angel's face

His happy startled eyes are raised to see.”
Already the young poet has received most flattering recognition
from the Press, and from many men of high authority; and we
can give, in farewell, no better wish, than that Louise de la Valliere
may be as great a success as it deserves to be, and that we may
soon weloome a second and larger volume from the same pen.*

FOR THE LAST TIME.
BY FRANCES I. M. KERSHAW.
T is morning in the valley—dear valley by the sea,

‘Where dwell in yon white cottage all that belong to me,
Nay, mine no longer now; for all this world ia stranger grown ;—
In all its length, and breadth, and height, I’ve nought to call my own.
I am leaving now for ever that home of childhood gay,

For the calm and peaceful refuge of the convent old and gray.
As I pase down the little valley, each leaflet nods good-bye ;
Brighter seems every foweret—gayer each butterfly.

Birds never sang so clearly, home never seemed so sweet;
Never more loved and tender, that turf to my aching feet :
And each little child that flitteth across my path in play,

‘With a silent, wistful blessing, follow these eyes to-day.

Where the old sea slowly floweth, solemn, and grand, and sad—
Its waves have a vocal music they never before have had,

And the ivy-clustered cottage, with its wealth of trailing vine—
And the farewells dumbly spoken—be constant, heart of mine!
Tell not those strained embraces, paint not that loving woe ;
‘What passed in the ivy cottage, none but our God shall know !
Never again—ah, never! never to stand by their side;

Never to sit a-dreaming by the froth of the rising tide!

Never again so swiftly, those gentle hills to climb !—

O how my heart throbe, wandering hore, for the last, last time.
‘Yet shall I turn regretful, to the world, its joys and care P
Seeking the convent’s shelter with my heart all otherwhere P
Nay, for the last time wander, sad eye, o’er yon valley sweet—
Then to the heavenly country turn eye, and heart, and feet.

* This, it will have been perceived, is not the summing up which we last
month claimed as our right and a right which shall be exercised when many
more have spoken beside the many who have already spoken. The foregoingisa
true poet’s appreciation of a sister~poet.—Fp, I. M.

(388 )

NEW BOOKS.

Tue pyramid of new books that rises from our dissecting-table is now
piled up so high that we must forego our purpose of returning to some
of those that were announced last mouth in this place. To the worth
and importance of two of these in particular our brief notices were
altogether inadequate—the learned treatise by Cardinal Baluf on
“The Charity of the Church a Proof of her Divinity,” admirably
translated by the Very Rev. Dr. Gargan of Maynooth College, and the
eplendid volume published by-Pustet and Co. of Ratisbon, New York,
and Cincinnati, containing the Latin originals of the authentic rescripts
of Indulgences, completed just before his death by Father Joseph
Schneider, S.J. This is a work of the highest authority on all the
subject of Indulgences.

We have sometimes been consulted about French novels that can
be read with safety; and indeed so far back as page 642 of the
third volume of this Magazine a short list is given of harmless French
tales. The well-known Librairie Blériot of Paris contains many more.
One of the latest editions to this library isa translation of one of
Miss Rosa Mulholland’s delightful stories which could not be recog-
nised under its French title of “Une Idée Fantasque.” A similar
fate has befallen other tales by Miss Mulholland, who has also ap-
peared at Berlin in a German version. This new translation we have
examined with care, and we cannot express our opinion better than by
adopting the words of a clever writer in the Freeman's Journal of
Dublin, changing one word which we think he has mistranslated—
“un roman honnéte et captivant :—

We all remember the impeachment pronounced by Dr. Johnson against a cor-
tain leg of mutton, that it was as bad oould be, ill fed, ill killed, ill kept, and
ill cooked. The book before us deserves a eulogium as marked as the lexicogra-
pher’s denunciation was flerce, It is well written, well translated, well edited, and
well printed. ‘The story is Miss Mulholland’s, and it displays the qualities which
those who know her writings expect to find in any work of hers, It is a simple,
artless tale, free from unreal sensationalism, and which yet excites the interest of
the reader from the first page, and holds it to the last. The preface by Charles
Gounod, the great composer, is very interesting aa showing the the effect produced
upon the sensitive mind of the musician by the well modulated notes of the novelist.
“Behold,” be exclaims, “a pure and captivating romance, the author of which re-
spects herself and her readers, In it we do not breathe the deadly miasma in which
sensational literature seeks so-called remedies against passions and vices which, for-
sooth, it would have us hold in horror.” Such sensational literature jars upon the
finely wrought mind of Gounod like false notes in music; and, as he says in his pre-
face, it must tend to destroy in those who indulge it the appreciation of emotion of
an elevated order. The translator has done excellent justice to the book which Miss
‘Mulholland wrote in her happiest vein, and which Gounod has gracefully introduced to
French readers.

By way of retaliation let a good English translation of a good French
Tale follow the French version of “ The Late Miss Hollingford”—

384 Notes on New Books.

which, by the way, was paid a still higher compliment by Charles
Dickens himself. When Tauchnits was reprinting “ No Thorough-
fare” in his famous library, and when it was found somewhat too
small for the series, the great novelist chose as & companion for his
own story, within the same covers, that story of Miss Mulholland’s
which has now reappeared on the continent in a French garb. The
translator of “ A Noble Heart” (published by Richardsons of London
and Derby) informs us that “ Etienne Marcel” is the assumed name
of a lady deservedly popular in France as well as in her native Belgium.
The present tale is, although edifying, very interesting, well told,
and well translated—but surely “bridal dress” is not of epicene
gender, as a phrase in the eighth page would imply,

Miss Anna Sadlier’s “ Women of Catholicity” (Benziger: New
York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis) consists of very well written sketches
of Margaret O’Carroll, Isabella of Castile, Margaret Roper, Marie de

Incarnation, Marguerite Bourgeoys, and Fanny Allen. The last is
called “Ethan Allen’s Daughter,” a title which has a meaning for
American ears, just as the third of these brave women might be called
Sir Thomas More's Daughter. The first of the band will be the least
known even for our readers, though she was an Irish princess of the
fifteenth century, who, as an old chronicler states, was “the one woman
that did the most in preparing highways and making bridgee, churches
and mass-books, and in all manner of things profitable to serve God
and her soul.” ‘The First American Nun,” the aforesaid Frances
Allen, fitly closes this attractive book, the binding of which helps its
contents to render it very suitable as a convent prize!

Mesers. James Duffy and Sons have brought out in most readable
form a series of nineteen short and sensible lectures by the Rev. Ber-
nard Feeney on “ Home Duties and Home Difficulties,” which Oardinal
Manning in a few cordial words recommends to all readers and
especially priests. Father Feeney is an Irish priest who has joined
the Pious Society of Missions in London. He treats of the place of
home in the Divine plan of creation, and its reeognition by Jesus
Christ; of the church and home, husband and wife, father and mother,
parental love, filial love, education of children, masters and servants:
and under the head of “Stumbling Blocks” he speaks of drink,
unhealthy literature, uathriftiness, untidiness, unsociableness. He
very judiciously refrains from any attempt at eloquence or fine writing.
Practical common sense is liable to be a little commonplace; but this
is a commonplace world of ours, and these lectures will be useful for
@ great number of readers.

The Rev. Francis Goldie, 8.J., has devoted much care and loving
research to the composition of his sketches of “ The Saints of Wessex
and Wiltshire” (Burns and Oates). The six saints are Birinus, Headda,
Aldhelm, Osmund, Edith, and Edward the Martyr. All the available

Notes on New Booke. 885

sources of information have been searched, and the reference to
authorities are given carefully, while at the same time pains are taken
to tell the story of these ancient saints in as interesting a manner as
possible, with occasional pictureaque glimpses of local scenery.

A very different tribute to a Saxon saint, but not bad in its way,
is “St. Kenelm the Martyr Prince” (Richardeons). This only pro-
fesses to be a story for boys; but we should think that the real story,
as it might be told by Father Goldie, would be far more satisfactory,
even for youthful readers.

It is not the fault of the printers (who have done their part admir-
ably) that we have not been tempted ;to read through “ Exiled from
Erin : a story of Irish Peasant Life,” by M. E. T. (Dublin : James Duffy
and Sons). We have, however, read enough to see that the story is in-
anocent and full of good feeling and good taste, and also that it is told
with a good deal of liveliness. But M. EK. T. herself (we ventnre on
the feminine pronoun on our own responsibility) warns us on the very
threshold that she is like the Needy Knifegrinder—‘‘Story? God
bless you! I have none to tell, sir” A Saturday Reviewer would not
have much trouble in making an amusing article out of the book be-
fore us; and even the present amiable oritic cannot bestow upon it the
praise which he would wish to give to any book written in so earnesy
an Irish spirit as is evidenced even by the poetical mottoes of the
chapters.

Nay, we do not care much for the tone of the Irish stories of Mr.
Nugent Robinson. Mr. Robinson writes clearly, is a practised story-
teller, and keeps the reader interested. But is there not a trace of
the patronising tone of the Lover-and-Lever rollicking school of
novelists with regard to Irish peasants and Irish character in gene-
ral? We speak from our general recollection of Mr. Robinson's
many Irish tales in the American magazines, The Oatholie World and
the Ave Maria. The managers of this last excellent religious periodi-
«al have reprinted one of his stories “ Better than Gold” in “Tho
Ave Maria Series of cheap Catholic Books.” Three other numbers of
tthe Series, to which we can give ‘unqualified praise, are “ Francis
Macary the Cabinet-maker of Lavaur,” one of Henry Lasserre’s
interesting tributes to Our Lady of Lourdes—a translation of Father
Perreyve's “Memoir and Letters of Rosa Ferrucci,” that holy and
-accomplished Italian lady, of whose brief life some account was given
in our eighth volume (1880)—and “Two Italian Sanctuaries of the
Madonna,” of which the first is the shrine of the Miraculous Picture
at Genazzano which has lately grown so popular under the title of
Our Lady of Good Counsel. Besides the excellence of these pia
opuscula, they have cheapness to recommend them, though the inde-
fatigable Notre Dame Preas devotes to them the best of type and
paper.

386 Notes on New Books.

Mesers. George Bell and Sons, London, have just published
under royal auspices, a magnificent volume, with a hundred and thirty
etchings, engravings, maps, and plans, “the History of Hampton
Court Palace in Tudor Times,” by Mr. Ernest Law, B.A., Barrister-at
Law. Mr. Law was already the author of an “ Historical Catalogue-
of the Pictures at Hampton Court” and of a “New Guide to Hamp-
ton Court.”,. He possesses very special qualifications and opportunities.
for the proper execution of his difficult task ; and he has produced a
work of great historio and artistic interest and importance.

Mesers. Duffy & Sons have sent us a large sheet containing litho-
graphed portraits of Mr. Parnell and the following members of his
parliamentary party: Messrs. Justin M‘Carthy, Huntley M‘Carthy,.
Gray, O'Gorman Mahon, Meagher, Sexton, Barry, Callan, Dawson,
R. Power, Healy, Sullivan, J. E. Redmond, W. Redmond, O’Brien,
Kenny, O'Kelly, Shiel, Small, Harrington, Biggar, Leamy, J-
O'Connor, and T. P. O'Connor; with whom are joined Mr. P. Egan,
Michael Davitt, and the Archbishop of Cashel. The likenesses seem.
to be very well caught.

A} second edition has just been published by Burns and Outes of
“Mary in the Gospels, or Lectures on the History of our Blessed Lady
as recorded by the Evangelists,” by the Very Rev. Dr. Spencer North~
cote, Provost of Birmingham. It is an excellent and most solid work
and a second edition of it ought to have been required long ago. Its.
present form is cheap and elegant.

An English Dominican, Father Maltus, gives the name of “The-
Little Garden of Divine Love,” to a small collection of very devout
elevations of the soul which very many, we hope, will use with
great spiritual profit and comfort.

Another English Dominican, Father John Placid Conway of
Newcastle-on-Tyne, has compiled from various sources “ The Story
of Early and Medieval Abingdon” (London, Burns and Oates) which
contains interesting references to St. Alice, 8t. Ethelburga, 8t. Edw: rd,
and many other saints.

The Catholic Publication Society of New York, of which Burns and
Oates are the English representatives, have brought out the first part
of a learned work by the Rev. William Strang, called “ The Eve of
the Reformation,” which the author further describes as “' an histori—
cal eseay on the religious, literary, and social condition of Ohristen-
dom, with special reference to Germany and England, from the year
1450 to the outbreak of the religious revolt.” This first part consists
of five chapters on the papacy, hierarchy, clergy, and saints of the-
half century preceding the so-called Reformation, and finally a
chapter on the Divine Art, which turns out to be the art of printing-
‘The list of the principal authorities gives the names ef some fifty
solid works chiefly by German and English writers.

Notes on New Books. 387

Mr. R. E. White of San Francisco, who in his poems has done
much for the fame of Father Juniper Serra, the Apostle of Californie,
has devoted also an interesting brochure in prose to his holy memory.

The “Boston College Stylus” is a very spirited piece of work,
evidently produced by the lads themselves. The class which in euch
Jesuit schools is called “ poetry” celebrated Longfellow’s birthday by
a literary séance, and two of the essays are printed here. We should
have read with more interest the letter addressed to them by the
poet's niece—we suppose Miss Adela Longfellow, who became a Catho~
lio some years ago.

Dr. More Madden’s great experience and reputation in a special
department of his profession add value to his lecture “On Child-
Culture, Mental, Moral, and Physical” of which Fannin & Co. have
just published a second edition. In twenty pages he treats of the
mortality of children, of the management of infancy, of artificial
milk foods, the hygiene of early childhood, the nursery, exercise,
sleep, childhood, the moral culture of children, and their mental
culture or education.

The Rev. Thomas Jenkins of the Diocese of Louisville, has pub-
lished an extremely interesting account of “Six Seasons on our
Prairies, and Six Weeks in our Rockies ” (Rogers, Louisville).

At the New Orleans Exhibition, in the part assigned to literature,
the lady-authors of Louisiana were headed by a nun—namely, the
Superioress of the Sisters of Mercy, Mother Austin Carroll, who has
contributed so many delightful “Southern Sketches” to our pages.
The American volume of her “Leaves from the Annals of the
Sisters of Mercy,” will soon be published.

Musio is not sufficiently cultivated among our Irish people or our
Irish priests. In that department also justice has not yet been done by
art to the gifts of the Celtic nature. The learned President of
Maynooth, who (like Dr. Renehan the predecessor of his immediate
predecessor) is at home in every class in the great college, not merely
in Theology and Canon Law, but even in music and the Irish language
—Dr. Walsh has just brought out a volume which in a small space
contains a great| amount of matter arranged in the clearest manner.
It is entitled “A Grammar of Gregorian Music, with Numerous Exer-
cises and Examples ; a complete collection of the liturgical chants at
High Mass, Vespers, Compline, and other functions; Dumont’s
Masses of the ist, 2nd, and 6th tones; the Mass De Angolis, &.,
&o.” A critic of the highest authority in ecclesiastical music gives
in The Irish Ecclesiastical Record for June an earnest welcome to
Dr. Walsh’s treatise, which was the last book to receive the Imprima
tur of Cardinal Mac Cabe.

To pass from grave to gay or at least from eacred to profane, we
weloome from the active press of James Duffy and Sons “The School

388 Notes on New Books.

and Home Song-book : a Collection of Songs for use in Irish Schools”
by Mr. P. Goodman, Professor of Music in the Central Training
College, Marlborough-street, and St. Patrick’s Training College, Drum-
condra, Dublin. After thirty-two pages devoted to the ‘“ Elements
of the Theory of Music,” we have seventy-six Irish songs, twelve
English songs, eight Scotch songs, and thirty German part-songs.
Of course among the Irish are many of the most beautiful of Moore's
Melodies. A clever critic has approved warmly of the air that is
here for the first time wedded to “ The Bells of Shandon.”

Mr. William J. Doherty, C.E., M.R.LA., furnishes in a shilling
volume, a clear “ Digest of the Evidence given before the Select Com-
mittee on Harbours and Fisheries, and the modern use of concrete in
Engineering” (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Sons).

“The Messenger of St. Joseph ” appears now in type and paper
worthy of its great patron. We hope our previous announcements
have helped to embarrass the Rev. President of Rockwell College,
Co. Tipperary, by a constant influx of five-shilling postal orders; for
that is all that the yearly subscription amounts to.

The Catholic Truth Society is pursuing its useful labours under the
presidency of the Bishop of Salford. One of its latest issues is a list
of small and cheap publications from sixpence to a half-penny each,
selected from the catalogues of various publishers or published by the
Society itself. The annual subscription is ten shillings. All informa-
tion will be supplied by the indefatigable secretary, Mr. James Britten
18 West Square, Southwark, London 8.E.

Who isthe “ Amateur Mechanic” who is able to wield his pen so
ekilfully, whatever he may do with hammer, gimlet, plane, and
chisel? Messrs, M. H. Gill have published for him an attractive
volume, with seventy-five illustrations, entitled “Handicraft for
Handy People: Plain instructions on choice and use of tools, car-
pentry, locks and hinges, housepainting, staining, varnishing, dis-
tempering, paper-hanging. glazing, picture-framing, soldering and
metal work, gilding, filters, map-mounting, cementing, the graph, &.,
&o.” Yes, after this ample catalogue, an etcetera covers an immense
number of practical details which will delight the souls of those who
aspire to be amateur mechanics. The prices of all the tools and
other things brought into requisition are given in this very able little
book.

At the very last moment comes to us the second edition, much
cheaper and yet prettier than the first, of “ A Saint among Sainte—
the Life of St. Emmelia.” Aubrey de Vere prefixes two beautiful
sonnets to the work of “the daughter of his old and valued friend
Denis Florence MacCarthy.” We hope that this most holy and
charming book is even still in time for convent prize-liste.

Winged Words. 339

We have now mentioned all the books sent to us for review, except ,
four, for which we shall show our regard by again postponing a fuller
notice of them. Except one volume which we must name so often
again that we deem it best to refrain from naming it now, the daintiest
book of poetry we have met for years is Maurice Egan’s “ Songs and
Sonnets,” with which Mr. Conde Pallen’s “ Carmina” are joined and
are almost worthy of being joined. A much more sumptuous and
indeed very beautiful book is Miss Ruth O’Connor's “ Wild Flowers.”
Of these again, and also of Sir John Croker Barrow’s “ Towards the
Truth.”

Finally, we can no longer defer calling the attention of our religious
communities, and others whose spiritual reading extends to the French
language, to the very interesting and edifying life of Father Labonde,
S.J., which has recently been written by Father Oarruau of the same
Society. The career of the venerable Jesuit is divided into two-por-
tions which portray him as the Apostle of young people, and the
Apostle of the working classes. In the former character his work lay
chiefly in the Jesuit Colleges at St. Acheul and at Friburg; in the
latter at Nantes where the memory of his long life is still affectionately
cherished. He was a saint of a very amiable and original stamp, and
Father Carruau has told his story admirably.

WINGED WORDS.

1. In five years one-fifth of the human race leave this earth for
good, or, at all events, for good and all.—James Payn.

2. In the region of faith there is light enough for those who wish to
see, and obscurity enough for those of an opposite disposition.— Pascal, -

3. Christian faith is a grand cathedral with divinely painted
windows. Standing without you see no glory nor can possibly imagine
any; standing within, each ray of light reveals a harmony of un-
epeakable splendour.—Nathaniel Hawthorne,

4. We should manage our fortunes as we do our health—enjoy it
“when good, be patient when itis bad, and never apply violent remedies
except in an extreme necessity.— Anon.

5. Under certain known conditions, the force which generates
heat will also generate light, electricity, and even sound. So the
powers of the mind are convertible into each other. Mental drill and
discipline gained in one way will avail us in a hundred different other
ways. Knowledge in one direction has intimate, relation: with all

390 Winged Words.

other knowledge. Power developed and exercised in one sphere, is.
ready for use in another; and he who has drawn it from many sources.
will be best fitted to put it forth in his chosen vocation.— Anon.

6. It is difficult to say which is the greatest defect in a parent—
strictness and firmness in his family without feeling or affection, or
feeling and affection without strictness and firmness. Under the one
bad system the children are apt to become elaves or hypocrites under:
the other, tyrants or rebels. But true love is always firm, and true
firmness is always loving.—Anon.

7. There is no rock so hard but that a little wave may beat
admission in a thousand years. — Tennyson.

8. Not to fear death is a slight to Him who made it our special
punishment. Not to desire death is an indifference to Him whom we
can only reach by passing through it.—F. W. Faber.

9. Compromise is a good umbrella but a bad roof.—James Russell’
Lowell.

10, The only argument against an east wind is an overcoat. —The
Same. ‘

11. Things in possession have a very firm grip.—The Same.

12, In the scales of the destinies brawn will never weigh as much
as brain.—The Same,

13. It is only by instigation of the wrongs of men that the rights.
of men become turbulent and dangerous.— The Same.

14. I was given a seed to plant, and, when most I loved it, I was
bidden to bury it in the ground; and I buried it, not knowing I was.
sowing.—Oaptain Allen Gardiner.

15. There is none so great, but he may both need the help and
service and stand in fear of the power and unkindness even of the
meanest of mortals.—Seneos.

16. If parliament were to consider the sporting with reputation
of as much importance as sporting in manors, and pass an act for the-
preservation of fame, there are many would thank them for the bill.—
Sheridan.

17. A man’s genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much un-
known to himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials
attended with success, that he dares think himself equal to those
undertakings in which those who have succeeded have fixed the
admiration of mankind.— Hume.

18. If all the happiness that is dispersed through the whole race
of mankind in this world were drawn together, and put into the pos-
session of any single man, it would not make a very happy being—
though, on-tho contrary, if the miseries of the whole species were fixed
in a single person, they would make a very miserable one.—Addison.

(381)

MARCELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

Avrmon or “ mneran'smrerony,” “re WIOKED Wo0De OF TOBEREEYTL;” gno or AiN,”
“THR WALKING TREES AMD OTHER TALES,” ETO., ETO.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WHAT THE WORLD SAID.

Dvs.iw in September is as deserted as other cities in that month,
and there is no life in its fashionable squares and streets, except
when a horse show or a flower show draws a fluttering crowd of
pretty faces and gay dresses from far country houses among fields
and pastures, or from near and delightful sea-side resorts along
the shores of Dublin Bay.

‘When Miss O’Donovan had opened up Mrs. O’Kelly’s old house
in Merrion-square and made it comfortable for the reception of
the ladies who were to follow her, she found herself almost alone
in the fine old square which is one of the handsomest bits of
Dublin, and had to travel out to Killiney and Bray, and further
still into Wicklow county, to discuss with her acquaintances Miss
O’Kelly’s connection with Bryan Kilmartin and the approaching

Mr. O'Flaherty and his daughter had preceded her to Dublin
and were staying at Killiney at the charming summer residence of
a friend, a wealthy widow lady who was also a bosom-friend of
Miss O'Donovan. Here the latter lady paid one of her first visits,
and her appearance was hailed with pleasure by a group of idle
people assembled on a green terrace overlooking that blue bay
which is said to be like the Bay of Naples, and which many peo-
ple, bitten with Erin-manis, declare to be even much lovelier from
certain points of view.

The steep green hill of Killiney, soaring to that furze-girdled
and rock-crowned point which pierces the towering rings of silver
cloud crowning it, is covered with a network of groves, gardens,
and villas, each with its own vantage ground for the enjoyment of
& view of unspeakable beauty, and under the hill, following the
exquisite curves of Killiney shore, runs the living sea; Palpitating

Vou. xm1., No. 146. August, 1885.

a

392 . Marcella Grace.

beneath its veils of delicate colour, now blue as violets, and now
green as the drift weeds in a valley river, one hour tossing flame
all along its shifting lines, the next overflowing its glittering
boundaries with a motionless tide of molten silver and gold.

Out of the green bowers around their terrace, a little crowd of
prosperous people gossiped and jested, looking over at the distant
hill of Howth, wrapped in its mists of rich, languorous, melancholy
blue.

“I declare here is Bride O'Donovan,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbon,
the mistress of the house. “How very opportune! She will tell
us some news, if anyone can, on the subject.”

“I don’t think she knows any more than we do,” said Miss
O'Flaherty, who had been chief authority up to this moment.

“Oh, but she is straight from Connaught, and you have been
a month in Scarborough, my dear Julia. Your father, I know, is
excellently well-informed, but then women always pick up scraps
of gossip so much better than men; now don’t they, Mr.
O'Flaherty ?”

Mr. O'Flaherty would have agreed that snow was falling from
the daffodil-tinted sky before him if Mrs. Fitzgibbon had called
upon him to do so.

“My dear Bride! Got all that tiresome house-opening busi-
nees over, and not too tired to talk to your friends? I hope not,
for here we are pining for a little light on this Kilmartin business.
It is a real godsend to meet a person who has come from the very
source of all knowledge on the subject.”

Miss O'Donovan took the seat eagerly presented to her by Mr.
O'Flaherty, and folded her nicely gloved hands at her ample waist,
and enjoyed a moment of triumph, while not unconscious of the
difficulties of her position.

She had several interests to reconcile while preserving her repu-
tation as a person who could tell a great deal if she would. She
must please her friend Mrs. Fitzgibbon, whose countenance was
very precious to her just now, and also beware of alarming Mr.
O'Flaherty whose chosen ally she was, and whom she must not
deprive at present of his hope that Miss O'Kelly of Crane’s
Castle would ultimately listen to his suit, though hitherto she had
apparently discouraged it. Were this hope suddenly extinguished,
he might devote himself completely to Mrs. Fitzgibbon. And he
was at present wearing the blue ribbon, was aman of good position
in his county; and there was uo knowing what might happen ;
widows are so foolish.

Marcella Grace. 393

“In the first place, how much do you want to know?” said
Miss O'Donovan. ‘ You must remember my position is a delicate
one. I cannot betray anything in the nature of a confidence.”

“Quite true, quite true. We only want to know what every
one has a right to know,” said another lady, erecting her parasol
against the sun with a very decided snap of its machinery.
“There are certain things that ought to be open to the public in
matters of this kind. I don’t hold with secret investigations.”

“Everything will come out on the trial,” said a sly young
barrister, with the air of having.thrown a good deal of light on
the subject.

“Thank you, Mr. Shine. Belonging to the law naturally
makes one very perspicuous,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “Butin the
meantime until the ‘ whole discovery is found out’ as the news-
paper-selling imps ory, we want a little help at our guese-work.
Who is the mysterious lady for instance who has been hinted at eo
often in the Central News telegrams?”

“Is it true that Miss O'Kelly is or was engaged to Bryan
Kilmartin?” asked a girl whose soft grey eyes were full of an
interest in the matter that was not all vulgar curiosity.

“Tí that were so, I should certainly have known,” said Miss
O'Donovan. “How could I have helped knowing?” she added
urgently, delighted to be able to put down this suggestion without
positive breach of truth. Certainly she never had been told of
any such engagement. But she had guessed its existence for all
that.

“There!” said the lady with the parasol. “I knew a girl
with Miss O’Kelly’s advantages would never destroy herself in
such a manner.”

“He is very handsome,” said the grey-eyed girl in alow
voice. “I saw him only once, but I thought he had such a noble
countenance.”

“Oh, I suppose all the young ladies will take his part like
Miss Eyre because he is good-looking, but I think that sort of
sentimental sympathy with criminals is one of the most unwhole-
some signs of the age.”

‘A man is not known to be a criminal until he has been tried
and found guilty,” said Mr. Shine, with an approving glance at the
girl with the grey eyes.”

“Is he a friend of yours, Mr. Shine?” asked the owner of
the parasol.

“He had once many friends,” put in Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “I

394 : Marcella Grace.

fear it is a bad sign when a man drops away from the society to
which he was born. When he came home from Cambridge some
years ago he was at a party at my house, and I thought him one
of the finest young fallows I had ever seen. And his mother was
so prowd of him.”

“Oh, you know the mother, the—the—Amazon ?” lisped a
small ugly woman, who based her claim as a charmer of men on
her infantile manners. “ You see, Mrs. Fitzgibbon, I think these
tall masculine women are always so cruel —— ”

“Amazon! She is as small as you!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitz-
gibbon, “and much prettier and more feminine,” she added aside
to her next neighbour, “though she speaks and acts like an
ordinary adult.”

“Really!” cried several voices.

“ At present she is more like the ghost of a sick child than
anything else,” said Miss O'Donovan. ‘TI believe she will weep
herself to death before the trial comes on.”

“ Better she should,” faltered an old gentleman. “ When the
only son of a widow turns out a rascal it is enough to make angels
weep.”

“But you have not told us anything about Miss O'Kelly,” said
Miss Eyre. “How is she mixed up in the affair?”

“Really, I do not know that she is mixed up in it at all,
except that circumstances threw her into the arms of the Kilmar-
tins, as it were, in the very beginning. Dear Mrs. O’Kelly’s
death was so sudden, and the girl, having been brought up abroad,
‘was so utterly without friends in Ireland ; had only paid one short
visit to her aunt, and had gone back to finish her schooling, when
she was called upon to step into Mrs. O'Kelly’s place. Father
Daly, the priest down at Distresna, attended Mrs. O’Kelly on her
deathbed, and went straight to France when all was over and
brought the girl home. It appears that though he was such a
friend of dear Mrs, O'Kelly, who was always ao nice and conserva-
tive, he was also a friend of the Kilmartins—the country priests
all do sympathise with the Nationalists, you know ”

“There was no taint of Nationalism in the Kilmartins origin-
ally,” said Mr. O'Flaherty, “I will say ao much for them. All
that came in with the mother, let her be an Amazon or a pigmy.
She is descended from some of the Irish Brigades; ‘ Wild Geese,’
and all that sort of thing.”

“It is surprising how that old continental service is still making
foreigners of some of us,” said the nice old gentleman,

Marcella Grace. 395

“Great grandfather's old French sword hanging up in the
hall, you know,” continued Mr. O'Flaherty. “ Even old Kilmar-
tin would point to it with pride and say “my wife's fortune,
O'Flaherty. The only legacy ever bequeathed to her." And he
had as little nonsense about him as any one of us. He was as
sensible and sociable a neighbour as ever rode to hounds.”

“Or mixed a glass of whiskey-punch,” said Mr. Shine, with-
out any alteration in the gravity of his demeanour, as he fixed his
eyes innocently on Mr. O'Flaherty.

“Or mixed a glass of whiskey-punch, as you say, ha! ha!
A very good thing too, Mr. Shine, and a great deal better to be
mixing it at home than strolling abroad preaching new doctrines
to make the poor discontented with their lot, sir.”

Mr. Shine smiled and felt that he was not hit. He loved
neither whiskey-punch nor preaching to the poor. All his desires
were covered by the dome of the Four Courts, and to get leave to
talk to a judge and jury all day long was his idea of bliss. He
wisely held that, if courts of justice must exist, it is better to sit
with the bar for prosecution or defence than to stand in the dock,
either as a consequence of drinking too much whiskey, or of teach-
ing strange doctrines to the poor.

“ That shaft was thrown away, papa,” said Miss Julia, “as we
are all ladies and gentlemen here. Don’t make Mr. Jones think
that he has got among dangerous people,” upon which Mr. Jones,
a-portly iron-master whom Miss Julia had met at Scarborough,
and beguiled across the channel, began to declare that he had
never been more delighted with any people in his life than the
Trish, as he now found them, that he had no idea—that he couldn’t
have conceived, &c., &c.; the rest being for Miss Julia's ear alone.

“Then it is merely from a girlish feeling of gratitude to her
first friends that Miss O’Kelly clings to the Kilmartins,” said
Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “Very pretty of her, I must say; but very
dreary. What must we do to save her from the unpleasant oon-
sequences of her rashness P””

“ Excellent lady!” exclaimed Mr. O'Flaherty.

“ How shall we approach this Donna Quixote?” asked Mrs.
Fitzgibbon of Miss O'Donovan. :

“I can give no advice, Miss O'Kelly is so firm in her own
views, I really think it would be impossible to withdraw her from
her assumed guardianship of Mrs. Kilmartin at present,” said
Miss O'Donovan. “However you can come and try. She willbe
at Merrion-square to-morrow.”

396 Harcella Grace.

“ And Mrs. Kilmartin ?”

Will also be there, to stay till the trial is over.”

“The mother of the man in prison for murder. I am not sure
that my enthusiasm for Miss O'Kelly will lead me so far as to
connect myself with her,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbon, slowly. ‘One
must think of what would be said.”

Mr. O’Flaherty’s jaw fell.

« T—I—I—think it would be kind,” he murmured.

“Now, papa, you see I was right,” said Julia. ‘“ You wanted
me to go, and I thought whatever might be done in the country
we should have to be careful here. How would you like to see
yourself spoken of in the papers as a sympathiser with crime?”

“It would be no use, at any rate,” said Miss Eyre to Mr.
Shine, who had edged himself near her in the course of the con-
versation. “TI believe that girl will stick to her post. I met her
several times, at last Patrick’s Ball, and at Mrs. O’Kelly's. There
was something about her I can’t describe. Did you know her?”

“Like you I have just met her. I am not as romantic as you,
but I thought she had character in her face.”

“It is a dreadful tragedy. Do you think he did it, Mr.
Shine P”

“Tam junior counsel for the prosecution, Miss Eyre, so what
can I think? I believe at all events that you have jumped to the
right conclusion in deciding that Miss O'Kelly will stand by the
Kilmartins. She is too deeply concerned with them to dream of
such a thing as deserting them.”

“You know more about it all than we do.”

“A little.”

So it was that nobody of importance called on Miss O’Kelly
when she arrived for the first time in Dublin to inhabit her house
in Merrion-square, and this state of things was not much of a
surprise, but a great relief to Marcella, who had nerved herself to
encounter questions, condolences, and counsels from people who
knew nothing about her affairs. She had brought Miss O"Dono-
van to Dublin to stand between her and much of this kind of
‘thing, but in order to show she was not afraid of it, she had
insisted upon taking up her abode in her own house, prominent as
it was in situation, and had placed flowers on her window-sills, and
hung fresh curtains in her windows, that the world might see no
trace of the terror in her heart, might not suspect her of feeling
the slightest fear of the result of the trial of Bryan Kilmartin.

Marcella Grace. 397

For this reason she had refrained from following her impulse to
take guiet lodgings near the prison of Kilmainham out of sight
und hearing of the world, and thus putting the smallest possible
space between the prisoner and those whose constant thoughts
were with him. She would not hang back in the shade as if she
was conscious that they had reason to be ashamed of him. Never-
theless she was thankful that the world left her unmolested, and
never troubled herself about the tales that were told and the
speculations indulged in when Miss O'Donovan went to pay her
daily visits to her fashionable friends out of town.

The shock of the first unhappy visit to Bryan being over
when Kilmartin and his mother met for the first time since his
arrest, Marcella looked round for some means of passing the dread-
ful hours from every morning till every night, and from the
beginning of one week till the beginning of another. In
presence of his mother and a warder, she dared not speak to him
fully of the terrible visitor at Inisheen. The matter was alluded
to, and she simply stated that strange questions had been asked
her to which she had of course returned an absolute denial.
Bryan had turned pale as she spoke, and made an exclamation.
She had glanced at the warder and then at him imploringly, and
Kilmartin said no more, and so the matter passed. That was on
the occasion of their first visit, hers and his mother’s, to his
prison cell. What could be said with a warder standing near,
within ear-shot of every word that was spoken? The mother's
affliction called for all Marcella’s care and attention, and the visit
was a short agony, the poor little mother being carried back to the
carriage in a fainting condition. No one could see the prisoner
again for a certain number of days, and meantime Marcella had
another visit from Mr. O'Malley at her house, and again denied
that she had ever hidden or harboured the prisoner, or seen him
at all before the night of the Patrick’s Ball. While she was
saying the false words she felt his eyes looking through her as
they had done before, and knew that hers had acknowledged her
guilt to him a hundred times in the course of the interview. But
what did that signify so long as she would not speak P

It was the morning after that first visit to Bryan that she had
again seen and foiled O'Malley, and after he was gone she felt that
she must secure some distraction for her thoughts or lose her
mind. Leaving Mrs. Kilmartin lumbering in a state of reaction
from the tension of yesterday’s excitement, she took Bridget, the
old housekeeper, whom she had brought to town to stand between

398 Murceila Grace.

her and the Dublin servants, as she had brought Miss O'Donovan
to stand between her and the Dublin gentry, and muffled in a
close black bonnet, veil, and clodk, went to take a walk through
the part of the city she knew so well, to have another look at the
old street, the old house, the spot where she had first met Bryan,
and where she was going to swear she had never met him. She
need not be afraid now of anyone who knew her meeting and
recognising her. She had been tracked, and traced, and was soon
to appear before the world as Marcella Grace, her father’s daughter,
the girl who had sewed for her living in the Liberties. That
story of her foreign rearing, so ingeniously set on foot by poor
Mrs. O'Kelly, was soon to be blown tothe winds. She would stand
in the witness-box asa girl who had pretended to be what she was
not, and deceived her little world, and perhaps might therefore be
open to suspicion as a credible witness. Well, in that matter, at
least she had not intended to deceive anyone. Mrs. O'Kelly had
set the story on foot, and she had not ventured to contradict it in
any large way, that was all. She had not thought much about it,
it would have pleased her better to have informed every one of
the exact state of her circumstances. But now, as to being a
credible witness—she shuddered and walked faster to drive away
the dreadful thought that pursued her wherever she turned, the
thought that she was now a liar, and was going to be a perjurer.
She felt a vague wonder as she walked so fast that poor old
Bridget could scarcely keep pace with her, asto what Father Daly
would say to her, how she was going to live under his eye when he
‘came to understand what she was doing. She knew she would
not be able to deceive him, any more than she had been able to
deceive the mother. Dearly as he loved Bryan, he could not have
the mother’s instinct which tempted her to permit sin that justice
might be had for her son. He would urge, preach, scold, put
her under a ban—but she would be firm. They should not hang
Bryan on words coming from her lips, not though—O God ! that
she could stop this thinking—ay, here they were coming into
Patrick's Close, and the old ground was near at hand. There was
the tower of Patrick’s lifting its dark body at the foot of the
descending street. Here was the low-lying Coombe (vale) which
ehe had traversed many times dreaming of sixpences and shillings
earned, and half crowns hard to earn. Now she had money to
throw to any poor girl who might be passing by with starved eyes
that saw nothing but the struggle for existence, yet what was this
horror of sin that had come into her lifeP Sin, was it sin ?, Sin

Marcella Grace. 399

. to refuse to murder Bryan Kilmartin with her own hand, that hed
once been so proud of having saved him P

“That is the house I want to go into, Bridget. I once knew
some poor people who lived in it. I wish to ask about them.”

There stood the old house at the corner of Weaver’s-square,
seeming more dingy, old, and battered even than it had looked six
months ago. It appeared forlorn, deserted; she could not tell
whether it was inhabited or not. This woman with the shawl over
her head coming down the street might be able to tell her. Oh,
yes, the woman could tell her anything she wanted to know about
that very house.

“The key is kep’ in the next neighbour's, ma’am, an’ that’s
meself, and ready enough, but sure it’s not much of a place for
the likes of you to go into (Patsie! bring out the big key !)
Nobody lives in it since ould Grace the weaver died, and the lan’-
lord doesn’t find it so easy to set it in tinimints, Miss, because of
the holes in the stairs, and that. An’ he doesn’t want to spend
money on it because people do be sayin’ that it’s clane pulled down
it'll be next year by the sanitary gintlemen. Sure there's great
improvements entirely goin’ on ; and look at Guinness’s buildin’s!
‘They may say what they like, callin’ them that lives in them
Guinness's flats, but meself thinks they're sharp enough afther their
own comfort that takes to them. Now ma'am, here’s the key
comin’, and you can take a walk through the ould house—only
mind the holes!”

In at the old familiar door again, and up the well-known stairs.
Here was where Bryan stood when ke told her with his straight
stern glance that he had done nothing wrong. There on the landing
she had waited while the police searched the house. Here her
poor father had stood while he unfolded the newspaper that told
of a murder in the streets; and now for the crazy room where she
had put Bryan into hiding.

“There's nothing particular about the place, ma'am, ye see,
except it be that ould closet. Sure ye’d niver see the door of it
in the wood, only I showed it to you. It’s a sort of a black hole.
God knows what it was put there for, but the police have got an
eye on it this while back, somethin’ about a murder that was done
in the street, and I’m tould that they suspect it’s in there the man
was murdered, but whether he was shut up in it till he was starved,
or whether he was knocked on the head, I couldn't rightly tell you.
I’m only a matter of a month in the street meself, but there’s
Mrs. Casey, a neighbour of mine, says it couldn't ’a’ been injould

400 Marcella Grace.

Grace’s time, because he was a dacent orature, and besides she
would ha’ knowed. Anyhow, there’s somethin’ goin’ on about it,
an’ if Mra. Casey 'd- been here she'd ha’ tould you the whole thing:
but I niver had a head meself for the rights of a story. If you'd
like to wait a bit, ma’am, Mrs. Casey ‘Il be in at three, an’ if ye’d
sit down in my own poor little place till she comes, I’ll dust the
best chair for ye.”

“Oh no, thank you greatly,” said Marcella, who had no wish
to be confronted with Mrs. Casey, the woman who had come for
her to Mrs. O’Kelly’s, that night when she had hurried home after
the ball to her father’s deathbed. Another time she could be
pleased to see the kind old neignbour, but she felt that at sight of
her now she must break down. She felt as eager to be gone as
she had been an hour ago to make her way to this spot, and sum-
moning Bridget she hastened out of the street, nor thought of
where she was going till she found herself pausing before the
entrance into the shabby old church where as child and girl she
had prayed.

She stood at the gate a few moments, looking up as if ata
strange building. Had she ever noticed in the old time those two
large keys carved in the stonework, Peter's keys, she knew, the
keys of heaven? They looked now as if they had been crossed,
like bars, to shut the sinner out beyond the gate they guarded.
And yet she would dare to go in, she would not be thrust out.

“Sure Miss, it’s an ugly ould chapel ; there's far purtier ones
all round the city,” whispered Bridget, to whom this was a sight-
seeing expedition. But she followed the young lady into the
church, and dropped on her knees in a corner and pulled out her
beads, while Marcella walked slowly, with bowed head and eyelids
scarcely raised, up the old familiar nave, and knelt down in one of
the worm-eaten benches, and remembered her old sorrows, and
struggles, and fears, and thought of them as bliss compared
with the agony through which she was living now. Then she
could pray, and depart comforted. Now she dared not pray, and
there was no comfort for the obstinate sinner. Slowly her gaze
moved round the walls, following along that Way of the Cross which
in other days her feet had travelled with childlike faith and un-
reasoning hope. Why hed faith and hope departed from her now ?
Why could she no longer travel that way of the cross on her knees
as she had done on the morning after she had first succoured him,
offering her prayers for him, and leaving him safe in the hands
of a God who knew all his difficulty? Why? Because she had

Harcella Grace. 401

ainned for him, and was going to sin more deeply for his sake.
Because she had allowed his life to become dearer to her than her
soul. How should God be with her in this struggle when she had
shut her lips to prayer, and opened them to perjury P With Bryan
safe and well by her side, could she evermore dare to pray P Would
not God cut her off for all eternity? Would not Bryan himself
learn to hate her for her crime? And yet to hang Bryan with her
own hand, to lift up her voice and give the signal for the murder
of her love! She could not do it. Even with the dear Christ
turning his dying eyes on her from yonder Cross she could not
promise to think of it. A blinding conviction that she was lost, body
and soul, ruined before God and man, smote her like the blow of
.& mailed fist, and a deathlike faintness seized her brain, her senses.
The church was empty now of all but the two women, and in
her distant corner Bridget heard a faint cry as Marcella called on
the name of the Saviour, and slipped away off her knees upon the
narrow floor between the benches, where the old servant presently
found her, lying stiff and cold in a swoon.

CHAPTER XIX.

THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS.

Tax morning after her walk through the city with Bridget, Mar-
cella received a message in her room that a gentleman requested
an interview with her on business. Expecting another encounter
with Mr. O’Malley, she went slowly down stairs, trembling, but
with head erect, and entered the study, looking more like a ghost
than a mortal woman. However, the visitor proved to be Bryan’s
solicitor, not the chief of the police.

His errand was to tell her that Mr. Kilmartin wished to see her
alone. Not even his mother was to be present at the meeting,
virtually not even the warder, who could be relied on to keep
sufficiently at a distance to allow of a private conversation. Mr.
Kilmartin had something very important to say to Miss O’Kelly.

She lost no time, but set out at once for Kilmainham with
Bridget.

Dismissing her conveyance at the gate of the Old Men’s
Hospital she walked through that peaceful enclosure of ancient

402 Harcella Grace.

walls and green lawns and alleys, and saw the aged pensioners
sitting in the sun, or doing a bit of gardening, or tottering up and
down under the trees, stick in hand, enjoying the balmy summer
air and the feeble conceite of their own tranquil and overweary
brains. Death could not be far away from some of these, but they
were ripe to go, must be ready, and were, maybe, eager for a renewal
of the youth which had long ago been drained out of their veins.
But Bryan. O God! which of these old men, ao carefully nur-
tured here, had in the whole space of his long life done one-third
of theservice to his fellow-men which Bryan had accomplished in his
shorter span? And yet they wanted to thrust him out of the
world, to put him to death as a malefactor who could not, for the
safety of others, be suffered to enjoy the lightof thesun! Travel-,
ling through a long green lane of shade under high arching trees,
an ideal summer walk for coolness and peace, she emerged suddenly
from under an ancient archway upon the highroad of Kilmainham,
and saw the prison staring her in the face.

Oh, that cruel front of granite and iron, those envious barred
windows, and bitter gates. ow many a savage injustice had been
wrought behind them, how often had the innocent herded with
murderers and gone to the scaffold branded with guilt, while the
informer, with blood-stained hands and blood-guilty heart, came forth
into the light of heaven and heard the birds sing once more inthe ,
blue air, and saw the flowers bloom uguin in the green! After a
great ringing of bells, rattling of keys, and clanging of gates, the
two women having satisfactorily answerea the questions put to
them, were admitted to the inner precincts of the prison.

The key grated in the lock of Bryan’s cell, the door was thrown
open and she saw him. The warder said respectfully, “ When you
want to get out, Miss, you can tap at the door—I’ll be just outside ;
not rightly outside, I mean, but. out of hearing.” And the man,
who was from Kilmartin’s county, whose father was still a tenant
of Kilmartin’s, and whose sympathies were with the prisoner,
closed the door behind him where he stood on the threshold, and
left the prisoner and his visitor to all intents and purposes alone.
And that they might be reassured on the subject of his deafness
to their conversation, he whistled softly between his teeth the tune
of the “ Wearin’ o’ the Green ” during the entire duration of the
interview.

Within the narrow limits of four cold stone walls whose
unbroken whiteness made the eyes ache and swim, she saw Bryan
stretching out his hands to draw her towards him, and the first

Harcella Grace. 403

conscious thought in her mind as she stood for a moment
silently, looking at him, was that she had never seen his grey eyes
look so blue under the shadow of his grave brows, that they were
as blue as a child’s eyes, or as the lake of Inisheen. Then there
were a few minutes of inevitable and immeasurable joy for both,
which all the impending horrors of the future could not kill, while
they stood hand in hand seeing no prison walls, only the purple
hills, and the flying clouds, and the laughing sea around them, till
the tragedy of their lives stalked at last between, and put them
asunder, and they sat gazing at each other dumbly across its
presence.

When the little flush of gladness had faded away from her
young face, he saw how hollow her cheeks had grown, how pale
her lips, and noticed the dark shadows that had settled round
her eyes. Even the half-starved Marcella of the Liberties
never looked so great a wreck as this.

“My love,” he said, “you have been killing yourself. You
will not leave me a chance for my own life. If you drop into
your grave before even the trial comes on, what have I to live
for P”

“For your mother, for yourself, perhaps for some other woman
who will love you more wisely than I know how todo. I do not
care, so that I am spent in saving you.”

“There could be no other woman for me in such a case. There
is no other for me in any case. You are my beginning and my
end. If you waste yourself away, I shall be left solitary.”

Marcella smiled a little, chiefly for the hope that underlay his
speech.

“ You see I am determined to live,” he went on, smiling to see
her smile, “and you must not refuse to live also: Unless you are
anxious to give me over to that other woman.”

She tightened her clasp on his hand, to which she was holding
as if she felt death already trying to undo her grip.

“Dear, I have asked you to come that we may talk about
this. It is not altogether fear for me that is killing you, Marcella,
for I know how brave you are—I have reason to know it. There
is something else that is gnawing your life away. Dearest, it is
that falsehood—which we must have done with.”

Marcella’s face drooped to her breast, and her attempt to speak
ended in a faint muttering. She withdrew her hand from his,
locked her own together, and sat silent.

“Speak, Marcella, say something to me!”

Vou, xiir, No. 146. bh

404 Marcella Grace.

She raised her head again and looked at him with a look of
suffering that seemed to see him afar off, and as if not belonging
to her.

“You have nothing to do with that,” she said; “it is my
own affair.”

“ How is it not my affair? Are your truth and your falsehood
not my affair, especially when they are to affeot, or intended to
affect my fate P”

“ My oonecience is my own—like my life. I hold beth in my
hand. Even you cannot make me speak, if I choose to be silent
—nor make me live if I am to die.”

He breathed a hard sigh, and looked at her as she sat with her
locked hands as if mutely pleading before the bar of a judgment
from which she expected no mercy; and he noted her pale
sharpened young features, the strung mouth, the dark locks un-
curled by the dew of agony lying heavy upon her brow, the eyes
large and strange with woe, startled out of their habitual softness
by a horror always confronting them.

“My dearest, dearest love, give me those little fierce hands;
they look as if they were locked against me as fast as the prison
gates; let me hold them while I talk to you. What, are you angry
atme, or afraid of me, because you think I am going to say some-
thing hard? You know, you cannot live and breathe without
knowing every moment, that Ilove you. My love for you is beyond
what is common among men. I am not a man who loves a woman
every year, or every five, or every ten years. As I said before, you
are the whole of woman’s love to me, and I felt it the first moment
I looked at you, felt it without knowing it when I saw you stand-
ing, pitying and protecting me in that old room in the Liberties,
me who felt all unneedful of pity—do not start and look over your
shoulder, no one hears now, but all the world must soon hear—and
felt it again more consciously, when I met your eyes in the crowd
that other night at the top of the staircase in the Castle. Since
then you have grown round the very roots of my heart. Every
hair of your bonny head is precious to me, every movement of
your lips is sweet, the beauty of your eyes and their tenderness
make my delight. You are everything to me, short of nothing
but only my honour and my soul, or rather the highest part
of my love for you is bound up with my honour and my soul.
Give me your hands, sweetest love, and let me hold them fast
while I say the rest of what I have to say to you. It is hard to
say, and hard to hear, but it must be said. In this [am stronger

Barvella Grace. 406

than you, as I ought to be, for I am the ian, and I must be the
master. Your will must be my will if you love me at al, and so
—Marovella, you must not commit perjury !”

She sat quite still and uimoved, her hands lay imp in his
strong grasp, she would not evén raise her eyes to see the passion
of pleading in his gaze. She knéw his love without telling, yet
the outpouring of it would have been an exquisite delight to her
at any other moment. Now the sweetness was like music heard a
long way too far off, or like excessive fragrant perfume scattered
by a fierce wind. All of it that touched her sounded like the Wooing
of a love that wooed them both to death. Ske could not opeh her
heart to it.

“ Marcella, lift up your dear eyes and look me in the face.”

She raised them with the same wild piteous gaze she had turned
towards the dying Christ on the cross in the church, only her eyes
ventured to loek this man in the face, who was only man, however
god-like he seenied to her, while they had not dared to rise higher
than the pierced feet of the pitiful Redeemer of men.

“We must not endure sin. You and I, who are one in heart
and mind, will not commit crime to prove our innocence. I am
immocent now; what should IE be if I were to buy my life with
perjury, any one’s perjury, let alone yours? We must not stand
up before God and man and deny the truth.”

“I have already denied it,” said Marcella, quickly, and with-
drew away from him a little, as if she félt herself unworthy to be
so near him, and would run before her sentence to meet her
punishment.

“T know it, and that is why I made efforts to talk to you alone
on this subject. You will not do it again.”

She stood up straight before him with a resolute movement,
but her eyes faltered away from his again, and she fixed them
blankly on the blinding-white wall.

“What is truthP” she said, with suppressed vehemence.
“The truth is that you are innocent. Why should I tell a story
that will make you appear guilty, the story of a wretched accident
which will seem to mean évery false thing that your enemies desire?
You told me yourself that it would be, if known, the strongest
corroborative evidence against you. Mr. O'Malley thinks so, I
know by the way he hungers for it. BE have intelligence enough
myself to see that it would rain you. And you—you would have
death from my hand—but you shall not haveit. Leave me with my
sin to God. When all is over, He will deal with me.”

406 Marcella Grace.

“When all is over P”

“ When you are saved and free.”

“ And you?”

She looked in his face, and her heart, with all its fiery eager-
ness, grew suddenly cold. She had expected that look she now
thought she saw, dreamed of it, cried out against it, nerved herself .
to bear it, but now she had confronted it, she felt it to be her
death-warrant,

“Me?” she said, faintly. ‘I shall have then passed out of
your life for ever. I have felt from the first that you could not
love a wicked woman, a woman who could lie even to save you. I
think I saw that on your stern brows even the first moment I
looked at you. I did not know then what it was that I saw, but
now I know. After I have saved you by my ain, I shall have lost
you. Have I not said that God would have power to deal with
me?” : -

Bhe turned her face to the wall with a movement of utter
forlornness, and leaned her forehead against the stone.

Bryan stood silent a moment gazing at her, and then went to
her and drew her towards him.

“Love, love, you are talking wildly. Unless death takes one
of us, our lives can never pass away from each other. Even in
eternity I do not feel that we can be separated. All the more
reason that I will not endure this sin. You cannot take it upon
yourself, giving me, after having benefited by it, liberty to fling
you away from my more rigid virtue because of the stain of iton
your conscience. And yet you and I could have no peace with the
shadow of it for ever lying between us. We are both too keenly
alive to the beauty and harmony of life regulated by the moral
law to be able to smile in each other’s faces while conscious of
having gained our happiness by so hideous a lapse from it. You
are sick now with sorrow, your brain is overwrought, you are a
little mad with your passion for self-sacrifice, quite blinded by your
thrice-blessed tenderness and sweet concern forme. But just give
up this struggle and trust yourself to my guidance. We will
weather this storm together, but we will have the truth on our aide.
Look up at me, and see now if my brows arestern. Oh, love, love,
love, would to God I could shelter you from this anguish that my
rashness has brought upon you.”

Marcella’s dry-eyed madness suddenly gave way, a rain of tears
drenched her face, and she wept tempestuously on his shoulder.

“Darling, you will promise to obey me.” H

Harcella Grace. 407

“O God, I cannot.”

He waited a few moments and let her weep her passion out,
and meanwhile the warder’s whistling of the “Wearing o’ the
Green” outside the scarce-closed door, filled the silence across her
sobbing.

“ You will give me your word that you will speak the truth.”

Her tears ceased and a long shadder shook her.

“Why, oh, why did you come to me on that hateful night,
only that I might be your ruin P”

“Only that your love might be the crown of my life. Had
they arrested me before I reached your door, the plot against me
would have been developed a little sooner, that is all, and I should
have died, if I am to die, without having known the highest joy
of living. But my dear, it has not been made certain yet that I
am to die. The truth on our side, we will fight the matter out with
courage.”

“ My courage is all dead.”

“No, it is not dead, it has only swooned with too much horror.
If it were dead I should be left a forlorn and disappointed man to
do battle alone. But if I know you at all, you will not desert
me.”

“I will not desert you.”

“Then give me your word. Say, “ On the day when I am called
on to stand up before the world and speak, I will not bear false
witness.’”

“O God, O pitiful God!”

“Yes, dear, there is a God, and he is pitiful. Say the words
I have put to you, ‘I will not bear false witness.’”

“I will not bear false witness,” said Marcella, mechanically.

“ That is my brave darling. And Marcella, sweetheart, listen
to me, for we have only a few minutes more to be alone, remember
that on your courage in that moment much may depend for us.
Truth is great, and innocence ought to be brave.”

“Tf I am there, I will be brave. My bearing shall not do you
wrong,” and she thought as she spoke that perhaps she should not
be there, might be dead in the mercy of heaven before that
unimaginable hour should arrive.

“T am sure of it. And now, sweetest, truest, and degrest, you
must leave me. The warder has given the signal that time is up,”
said Kilmartin, as the piping of the pathetic melody which had
twined itself all through their conversation suddenly ceased, and
Bridget’s stoutly shod feet could be heard upon the flags outside

408 Harcella Grace.

the door. And Marcella, stunned with the weight of the pledge
she had given, allowed herself to be dismissed and led away.

After she was gone Kilmartin sat looking at the spot where she
had stood, thinking more of the love that had eo strongly resisted
him than of the victory he had won, or its consequences. Hehad
long ago thought out his case thoroughly, and made up his mind
to the worst. By nature he was singularly brave, only needing to
know the worth of his aim, and taking no heed to count the cost of
effort; possessing all the daring qualities of the Irishman born to
be a soldier, but qualified for daily uses by the thoughtful reason-
ing of the philosopher. The development, more or less full, of
whatever high purpose a man might put before him, had always
seamed to him the chief reason for a thinking man’s existence,
and he had easily perceived that in any onward or upward struggle
of the masses there must always be a pile of alain on which others
pressing forward can mount to clear the breach. If the lot to fall
had been cast for him, why let him take it, and go down like a
man. This, a year ago, had been his attitude clearly cut against
the horizon of his future, and the order to march, as he put it to
himeelf, would have found him ready, with few weakening regrets
beyond those which were inevitably linked with the suffering of
his mother.

But as he now sat meditating in his cell, he was cruelly aware
that,’ in the last six months, life, mere personal life, had gained a
sweetness and a rich vigour for him never known before. Existence
had taken the colours of a poet’s dream, the beauty which still
walketh on the earth and air had captivated his senses, the light
that never was on sea or shore had fallen on his path, his heart had
flowered into a love that craved for all that human happiness
which he had only thought of before as the impediment and hin-
drance of weaker men. As he sat on his prison bed, his elbow on
his knee, his head on his hand, and looked for an hour—time is
not precious in a prison-cell—at that spot of the floor where Mar-
cella’s feet had rested, he acknowledged that it were keenly sweet
to live, and that the victory he had so hardly gained over the mad-
ness of a woman's love, strong in her weakness to do wrong for
his sake, was a terrible victory, the crown of which burned his
brows with a torturing flame.

He still felt the touch of her hand on his, the light of her face
shone on him, it seemed as if her breath still made sweet the air of
this small chill square of all space into which his manhood was
cramped. She was gone out into the sunshine of the autumn world

Marcella Grace. 409

like a crushed flower, and there was only that door, a little wood and
iron to keep him from following her with reviving joy in his gift.
Ifhe could but pass that door, what a life they might lead in some
country untouched by the curse that blighted all effort for good in
Ireland ; they two, under some rare blue ridge of Switzerland, or
in some ripe wild garden of Italy, or cool, picturesque court of
sunny Spain; they two, hand in hand, and heart to heart, in
harmony with all beautiful things, thankful and worshipful towards
heaven, enjoying with passion the beauties and the sweetnesses of
life, leaving behind them all effort to do good, here so thankless and
cruelly repaid, and only life, life, life in their full hands, to expend
upon one another through all the fruitful teeming years.

The strong man crushed his hands together in an ecstasy of suffer-
ing to think that all this might have been, and never now could
be his. In this hour of his temptation all his old generous theories
had left him. To die for the good of many did not seem so right
to him as to live for the good of one—of two. Todie? Tobe
thrust out from the light of the spn, the swell of the sea, the rush
of the air, out of all further knowledge of his love, blotted from
her face, deaf to her call, cut off for ever beyond her reach, no
cries, no answers, no faintest echo of sympathy between them
throughout the whole universe for evermore, to have but tasted the
first drops of living happiness and have the cup dashed down and
broken, this and not the knotting of the disgraceful ‘cord, or
nature’s resisting throe in yielding up the ghost, was death.

And what was life that he should be counted unworthy to hold
it, the common gift shared by the commonest thing that stirred in
the sunP Life, liberty—the fly that buzzed in through the small
aperture half up the smooth white wall above his head, and
buzzed out again, had both. As he followed its coming and going
with interest, he fell to musing on the wonderful beauty of life,
mere life as part of a living universe. He thought of the eagle on
the mountain at Inisheen, and the thrush in the garden at Crane’s
Castle, and the happy wild gull riding the waves, and then his
mind’s eye looked lower, to the rabbit scampering in the heather,
the butterfly wheeling her painted wings on the air, the darting bat
and humming night moth ; even the snail creeping out at will from
under lush leaves after the rain grew to be a miracle of free enjoy-
mentas heponderedonitshappy existence. Remorsefullyhethought
of how his gun had often brought down the glad wild birds from
their soaring delight to cruel annihilation, and hated himself for

410 The Clock of Kochem.

such murder. (God had given and God alone should take away the
life of a happy sentient being.

He looked at his own hand, the strong right hand of man, the
full throbbing veins, the fine tingling nerves, the thrilling fingers
exquisitely adapted for a thousand uses. This, too, was destined to
be limp and cold, to whiten, and then to rot.

The cell had grown quite dark, though outside in the wide fields
round Kilmainham the autumn twilight lingered, when a bird
belated by some chance on its way home to woods further out into
the country, perched on the bar of the high prison window and
began to sing his even song.

What is it in the song of a bird that suggests immortality ?
As the prisoner listened the despair of his soul gave way, and that
thought thrilled through him expressed by King David in the
words: I remembered God and I was delighted.

When the bird had finished and flown away, Kilmartin drew
his hand across his eyes, and was not ashamed of a tear only known
to himself and an unseen heaven.

THE CLOCK OF KOCHEM.
(From the German.)
BY ARTHUR G. GEOGHEGAN,
AUTHOR OF “THE MONKS OF KILCREA.”
I.

HEN the parting sunbeams glimmer
On the Moselle, hears the swimmer
Below him, where he cannot tell,
The tinkling of a silver bell,
And always sounds that little thing
Light and lively —Kling ling, Ming ling —ling !

II.

In time of war the Swedish foo

Marched towards Kochem long ago ;

‘And taking with them all they could,

The townsmen fled—es wise men should.

‘Then from the tower that little thing

Rang aad and slowly—Kling—ling—ling—ling!

The Clock of Kochem.

III.

“The Market Olock,” with look sedate .
Says the Burgomaster, “has struck eight ;
Many s day, many a time

Our hearts were gladdened with its chime.
Now sounds, alas! that little thing

For the last time, Kling—ling—ling—ling !””

Iv.

By strong arms raised and lowered down
The boatman bore it from the town

To hide it in the river, where

No Swede could think to find it there,
And then they sank that little thing

In deep water—Kling—ling—ling—ling !

v.

Upon the bank they raised a cross

To mark the spot, lest at a loss

In future time the boatman might

Forget the place, nor find aright

Where in the stream that little thing

Last rang farewell—Kling—ling—ling—ling—ling ’

vi.

When peace was made, the Kochem men
To their old town came back again,

But vainly searched to find the spot—
The cross was there, the clock was not:
‘When suddenly that little thing

Strikes up mocking—Kling—ling—kling-- ling—lin*

vn.

Each Alderman then shook his head,

“ A strange occurrence 'twas,” they said ;
But to this moment ne'er was found

The Clock of Kochem overground.

Bat on the river when he steers,

A merry sound the boatman hearr,

In water deep that little thing

Swinging gaily—Kting ling, kling ling—ling ?

411

( 412.)

EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS.
BY MRS. FRANK PENTRILL.
No. IX.—Oun Mans.

LOVE old maids. Yes, though the world seers at them,
though Punch makes endless fun of them, though all man-
kind pities them, with that pity which is so near akin to contempt ;
or perhaps for these very reasons, I love them, and as they cannot
plead their own cause, let me draw my little weak bodkin in their
defence.

‘When I say I love old maids, I am not speaking of that strong-
minded, shrill-voiced spinster, who has come to us from across the
Atlantic, and whose one idea of feminine duty seems to be posing
on platforms and discoursing on the rights of women and the
wrongs of men. No—no—let her fight her own battle; she has
both the will and the strength, to meet any number of foes. Nor
do I mean to champion that other type of spinsterhood, which is
of older, if not better growth: the woman who, finding others
strangely insensible to her many attractions, builds a shrine for
herself, and worships there her whole life long. I do not even
plead for those embryo old maids, who cling so persistently to
their fading youth and try so hard

“«Réparer du tempe l'irréparable outrage.”

But, putting these three classes aside, there remains a vast
number of unmarried women whose life is one of constant self-
sacrifice, and who, having no special duties of their own, take

. on their gentle shoulders all the troubles of other people..

We all know such women: the priest has no more devoted
coadjutor, the doctor no more intelligent nurse, the sick and sorry
no kinder friend. We meet them daily by the bedsides of the
poor, in country schools, in hospitals, at the altars which their
hands adorn, in our homes which they brighten; and looking
back through the long vista of years I see such a one filling a
large space in my childish memories; one whose coming made
red-letter days in our life, and whose going was followed by tears
and regrets,

She was one of a large family, with brothers and sisters

Kvery-Day Thoughta. 418

scattered far and wide; and, when the world went pleasantly for
them, they were apt to forget the gentle Martha; but if sickness
or sorrow came—then, indeed, she was quickly remembered.

One brother died in a far-off Indian hospital, and died happy,
knowing that Martha would take care of his orphaned children.
Another, poor and unfortunate, rushed off in despair to where
America held up to him her ignis fatuus of prosperity. He left
behind a helpless child, and a young wife almost as helpless, But
what did it matter? was not Martha there to take care of them P
If members of the family were ill, or poor, or in a dilemma of
anykind, “ send for Martha,” they said, and Martha came at once,
bringing comfort with her. Thus she went through her long life ;
@ ministering angel without wings, and whose halo was often
hidden by a very dowdy bonnet, for Martha was, it must be con-
fessed, the typical old maid at whom we have all laughed: an old
maid who wore ringlets and goloshes, and had a thousand little
odd ways and habits.

“Only an old maid!” How often do we hear the words, in
tones, half pitying, half sorrowful.

“Only an old maid!” says Mr. Practical, in tones wholly
scornful ; for he has married all his daughters and thinks the
catching of eligible husbands the whole duty of woman.

“ Only an old maid!” says the newly emancipated school girl,
in a voice of unutterable pity. Yet pause, worldly man, and
simple maiden, and reflect whether there are not many fates more
contemptible and more unhappy than an old maid’s.

I am very willing to sing a pean in honour of Baucis and
Philemon, and of Darby and Joan, though, in parenthesis be it
said, I know an old bachelor who declares that they are all four
absolutely mythical and impossible personages, but, even granting
that everything we hear about them is true, I cannot help remem-
bering all the popular proverbs, in which the experience of ages
has, I fear, found expression. ‘Marry in haste and repent at
leisure,” that is known to us all, and so is Punch’s famous “ Don’t,”
given as advice to those about to marry. We also recall the saying :
“a month of honey and a life of vinegar,” and that other cynical
Hungarian counsel :

“ Dost thon wish for peace? Then die.”
“ Dost thou wish for war? Then marry.”

But why go on! Everyone has heard hundreds of sayings
which tend to prove that old maids are not, after all, so much to
be pitied, for they at least have that “ solitude douce et tranquille,”

_

414 Every-Day Thoughts.

and those “petits plaisirs” of which unhappy unions are
deprived.

“My dear,” says Henry, who has been looking over my
shoulder. ‘My dear.”

When Henry says “ my dear” I begin to tremble, for I know
it means criticism of some sort. It is the marital jam in which
he envelopes the no doubt necessary, but decidedly unpleasant
medicine of reproof.

“ Well,” I answer in a meek tone of resignation, “ well?”

“My dear, I fear your readers won't exactly know what you
are driving at. One moment you ask us to pity the sorrows of the
poor old maid, and the next you tell us to envy her for escaping
the dreadful thraldom of married life. Now, which is it to be,
pity or envy?”

“Both, both,” I answer. I am pleading for the old maid,
looked down upon, forgotten, thrust aside, as if in all this great
world there was no place for her. Men have entered into an
instinctive conspiracy to agree in saying that no one is so much
to be pitied as she who manages to be independent of them ; and
women despise her as a failure—a woman who somehow has missed.
her vocation. Yet has she? God, it is true, has not called her to
that highest vocation; the mystic union of his chosen spouses ;
nor has he given her the sweet duties and pleasures of wives and
mothers. But shall we therefore say that the unmarried woman
is of no use in the world; that she is mere flotsam on the sea of
life, to be tossed aimlessly to and fro, till she falls to pieces; or
that she is a kind of social Mohammed’s coffin, hanging between
heaven and earth and tasting the pleasures of neither.

Happy wives with children gathering at your knee, when you
sit in the light of your hearths, think of the lonely women who
are standing outaide in the cold. I am not speaking of the actually
homeless and moneyless, but of the thousands whose life is one
long dreary monotony. They, perhaps, devoted their young years
to the care of an aged parent—of a sick brother or sister. They
gave up their youth, their hopes, their happiness, to some noble
sense of duty ; and when those for whom they did it died at last,
they were left utterly alone. They sit in gloomy rooms—alone ;
they wander through the world—alone ; they will probably have
to meet death—alone.

You who are happier, extend to them a little of your home’s
genial warmth, and, specially, welcome them at those festivals of
the year which for the unhappy are periods of increased solitude
and regret.

Every-Day Thoughis. 415

I have been pleading for the old maid, and now let me plead
with her; particularly with her who is just entering that lonely
path, which is not, I own, very bright or brilliant, but where there
are still flowers to be gathered and pleasant fruit to be eaten.

Just as white hair is beautiful and venerable, but the transition
black and white stage ugly and unbecoming, so it is with old maids.
They are both good and charming, when, recognising that spinster-
hood is their lot, they set about making it as useful and agreeable
as possible; but ah! how unhappy and ridiculous are those, who,
waking up one morning, and finding the autumn of their life
has come, shut their eyes to the cold dawn and insist on believing
that it is still summer. Of these are the (women who cling so
pertinaciously to the manners, the frivolities, the follies of youth.
We see them every day as they trip along our promenades, or sit
neglected in our ball-rooms. Ruins decked with flowers—chill
October wearing the roses of June. If, forsaking a fading shadow,
they would turn to the realities of life, how far happier they would
be! There is so much work for the “unattached ” to do, and they

* have so much time wherein to do it. There will always be sick-
ness and sorrow in this sick and sorry world of ours, little children
to teach, friends to comfort in their grief ; and the sneers die away,
the pity changes to admiring love before the unmarried woman,
who, herself deprived of this world’s keenest joys, devotes her
energies to the happiness of others.

Above all, I appeal to you for whom life is still an unwritten
page which you will have to fill, maiden:

“ Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
‘Womanhood and childhood fleet.”

Let not the foolish fear of being an old maid drive you to a
merely worldly or uncongenial marriage ; for better—a thousand
times better—the solitude and neglect of spinsterhood, than the
thraldom, the temptations, the miseries of an unworthy union.

( 416 )

GLEANINGS FROM THOMAS A KEMPIS.
(Continued from page 38).
JHE following prayer, evidently belonging to the mystic
school, is in reality the second chapter of ‘The Eleva-
tion of the Soul,” one of the most beautiful works of Thomas
a Kempis, and, so far as I can discover, never before translated
into English.

The original appears in the author’s manuscript, dated a.p. 1441,
now preserved in the Burgundian Library at Brussels (Nos. 5855-
5861).

H will also be found in print, in the 2nd vol. of a Kempis's
works, edited by Henricus Sommatlius, 8.J., a.p. 1615.
. . . F.R.0.

.
A prayer—that the soul may be delivered from the burthen of the
body, and all the imaginations thereof :—

I. I beseech Thee, O my God, I conjure Thee from the bottom
of my heart, to deliver me. Emancipate my distracted captive
soul—snatch it, I beseech Thee, from all the concupiscences of the
world and imaginations of the flesh, that, by the help of
enlightened reason, I may find Thee in myself, who hast moulded
me to thy precious and incorruptible likeness.

For, in no creature of this world, dods the beauty and likeness
of Thy wisdom shine forth as in the soul of man, which Thou hast
made capable of knowing Thee, and hast so admirably placed, by
the power of reason, above all created beings.

Elevate then my mind above all earthly things, and purify the
affections of my heart.

Renew me according to the interior man, remodel Thy image
by the sevenfold grace of the Holy Ghost; that image which Thou
hast created immortal, invisible, and incorporeal, capable of all
virtues, fit to comprehend eternal truth, to understand itself, to
use its reason, surpassing the brute creation, dignified far above all
sensible and visible things, and formed, in a word, to Thy very
image and likeness.

Root out and drive far away from me all that could stain-or
darken Thine image, lest it become unworthy in Thy sight or
offend the eye of Thy Majesty.

Voushsafe by Thy love to give form to this precious and most
noble image of Thyself, to enlighten it with understanding, and

Gleanings from Thomas a Kempis. 417

visit it unceasingly, forasmuch as Thou beholdest it with
unimpeded clearness and dost preserve it in existence.

Remember by what an unfathomable wisdom Thou hast first
created it from nothing, but not for nothing; by what grand and
holy purchase Thou hast again ransomed it from the slavery of
sin; and permit not that a creature of such worth be ever stained
by mortal transgression, but defend it from all evil, and enrich it
with grace.

Multiply in it the gifts of Thy bounty, and let that strength
which it lacks by the taint of corrupted nature, descend upon it
through the gift of Thy grace.

II. O Thou who art the Truth, my God of Mercy, grant me to
behold Thee without the idea of bodily form—without imagined
appearance—without any created light. Grant me to behold Thee
by the intelligence of a pure mind,—Thou who hast promised to
show Thyself to the clean of heart.

Thou hast said: Blessed are the clean of heart; for they shall
see God."

Sublime and mighty promise, fitting for pure and enlightened
souls, who, abandoning all things of earth, and raising themselves
above what is corporeal, merit, by Thy just judgment, to contem-
plate the light of Eternal Truth : and, in proportion as they recede
from created light, and the influence of created things, are rapt
above themselves into the sanctuary of divine Truth.

Oh, what a view—what a pure intuition !—How blessed the eye
with which God, the Truth, is beheld without images and corpo-
real similitudes.

Needful it is that the heart be untramelled, and cleansed from
all inordinate affections.

Needful, too, it is that the mind be free from all turmoil and
imaginations of bodily surroundings, if it is to comprehend some-
thing of the Eternal boundless light which illumines the entire
world.

Grant me, O Lord, that in Thy light I may see the light.t Not
the light of heaven or of earth, of angels or of men, but the
eternal light, uncreated, immense, ineffable, incomprehensible,
superessential, and unchangeable.

III. O how grievous to me is the burthen of my body. How
weighty the law of sin in my members,t which timpedes and drags
me back from seeing the light of heaven, the face of God’s glory,

* Matthew, v. 8. 1 Psalm xxxv. 10. 1 Bomans, vii. 28.

418 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

from the taste of eternal happiness, and from access to the heavenly
hosts who are surrounded and filled by everlasting joy.

Grant, I beseech Thee, O Lord, grace and heavenly blessing
to me Thy servant in this brief space of time, who as yet am not
worthy to drink from that fountain overflowing with living waters
springing up into life everlasting.*

Come unto me, O most merciful Jesus, come frequently ;
inflame me with Thy love ; that I may learn to despise all creatures
and all things here below, and simply to seek Thee alone, the
eternal uncreated Good, and to love Thee in true earnest, above all
things, for Thine own sake.

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.
BY JOHN FALLON.
Parr VIII.—Maprw.

Leavine Cordova yesterday afternoon, I arrived here this morning,
after anice little run of seventeen hours and a half by rail. During
the first part of the journey as you may see by the map, the line
follows the valley of the Guadalquivir; then at Baéza, it turns
away to the north, and, after some hours’ lively progress, pene-
trates the ravines of the Sierra Moréna, and thus enters Castille.

Between Cordova and Baéza the soil is of a most peculiar yel-
lowish-white, suggestive of barrenness, yet apparently most fruitful,
to judge by the endless wheat stubbles and lines of olive-groves
spreading up the hills. The subdivisions of the land are still fenced
with cactus, as in the more southern parts of the country, and this,
more than anything else, gives character to the scene.

Near Baéza a group of lovely mountains became visible far away
in the south-east. What could this be P the map told clearly : it was
the Sierra Neváda, full seventy miles off : each peak was seen with
a distinctness of outline all unknown to our moist northern atmos-
phere. The close of day was approaching at this moment, and the
mountains glowed in the evening sun with opal tints of blue and
fire, which you should see to realise.

* Jobn iv. 14.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 419

As the line draws on towards the Sierra Morena, the soil changes
completely. Below Baéza it was of yellowish-white clay : here itis
of decpest red. Words cannot exaggerate the redness of it: it is
asred as the cover of a Murray’s guide-book and very much of the
same hue, only toned here and there with a little chocolate brown.

Scarcely had the train got fairly within the ravines, when
the sun went down like a ball of fire, and I wish to note the
halo that encircled it for a very special reason, quite apart from its
marvellous beauty. The inner ring was saffron, of course, but of
a breadth and transparency which I had never seen before ; as it
spread, it darkened into brown, then melted into an outer circle of
green, that green ultimately becoming merged in the unfathomable
blue of the sky above. This halo gives the clue to some of Murillo’s
“conceptions,” numerous beyond counting in the picture-gallery
of this city. The weird glories of light that surround them seem,
to a northern eye, like wild creations of fancy, existing nowhere
but in the artist’s mind : but the fact is, Murillo was true to nature,
such as he found it; he nobly encircled his splendid effigies of the
Queen of Heaven with the choicest hues of his own Andalusian sun-
sets, and mortal hand could do no more.

An after-glow of ruby-red followed the sunset, overspreading
the whole firmament, and then a glorious thunderstorm. One could
almost read by the continuous glare of the flashes, while the loud
peals reverberated through the hills. At least one upward flash rose
straight from the ground likea rocket; and, like a rocket too, left
a sinuous trail behind it, high up in the air, and ending in sparks.
On arrival here, I found there had been a violent thunderstorm,
at about the same hour. Thus did the poor wanderer bid adieu,
all too rapidly, to charming Andalusia, firmly vowing to revisit it
soon again.

It is a good three hundred miles from this to Cordova, and even
a pretty long step to the Sierra Morena, but thanks to a night of
most refreshing sleep, I found myself rolling through the market-
garden outskirts of this city when I awoke this morning. Alas! in
those market gardens I observed, on this Sabbath day, field work
fast progressing, all unnecessary in such a climate; and, driving
through the modern-looking streets, I noted more than one shop-
front opened wide, and heard the discordant clang of anvil and
hammer from more than one workshop—discordant because of
the day. Has the spirit of Voltaire permeated here, or was it

- always so?

No doubt you have heard of the “ Puerta del Sol” haois ngnte),

Vou. si, No. 146,

420 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

favourite resort of revolutionists, rioters, and makers of “pronun-
ciamentos.” The principal hotels of Madrid look out on it, includ>
ing the one in which I am located. I had innocently expected to
see something of a gate here, or at least an arch of triumph, but
not a vestige of gate remains: the “ puerta del sol” is an open square,
enlivened by sparkling fountains, and surrounded by tall buildings.
Towards it converge the main thoroughfares of the city ; through it
flows the living population in constant streams, on foot and in
vehicles of every description. Hence a constant crop of dust, and
a praiseworthy struggle of the municipality to keep that dust down,
which they do about seven times a day with hose and jets, project-
ing the water at least forty yards through the air. Woe to your
new hat, if you indulge in such a folly, and chance to pass when the
sparkling spray is flying through the air! for the ingenuous water-
men are apparently blind to any discrimination between friend and
foe. Sometimes they charitably wake up and direct their aim at some
heated horse, whose driver halts to avail himeelf of their liberality,
and soon the grateful quadruped leaves the square refreshed and
happy ; at other times they shoot the water almost straight upwards,
and in the bright sunshine of Spain the falling showers fill the air
with perfect rainbows. Such is the ‘Puerta del Sol,” as seen to-day.

But, no doubt, there was formerly here a gate, when Madrid was
a provincial fortress, and its ramparts just passed alongside: the
puzzling survival of the name recalls this simple fact. It was the
emperor Charles V. who first made this town the permanent seat of
government, simply on account of its central position on the map of
the peninsula. His son Philip followed his example ; and thus did
this place of mushroom growth acquire precedence of cities that were
capitals many centuries before it was ever thought of as such.
Compared with their antiquity, proud and stately as it now stands,
itis but a thing of yesterday. Its streets show this: they are
straight, wide, and modern-looking in all respects. The churches
show it also : they are second-rate in style and size—which means
that the majority of them were built after the great church-build-
ing era had passed away ; a few that are of older date are merely
converted mosques of the second class. Hence the astounding fact,
Madrid has no real Cathedral !

There would be no sense in disputing the perfect right of the
Spanish sovereigns to locate their official capital wheresoever they
pleased; neither is it quite to be regretted that historic cities of
immemorial seniority were passed over for a town of no historic
antecedents in any way comparable with theirs ; it was their fate,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 421

and probably their good fortune, thus to escape the modern “ improve-
merits” of officialism, and to retain their own picturesque and
classic features, handed down from antiquity, for you and me to
admire and enjoy. What I do regret is, that, when Spain and
Portugal were one, some favouring angel did not whisper into the
ears of the meditative Philip to make Lisbon the capital of
the united peninsula. At his feet lay the boundless expanse of
the new world, into his coffers were flowing its golden treasures ;
human foresight could never have conjured up the wondrous vision
of the present day, which is being enacted beyond the Atlantic:
but surely some forethought might have told him that, had he
made such selection, the undivided peninsula would probably have
remained to him and his heirs for ever. But “dis aliter visum”. . .
Providence permitted things to happen otherwise, perhaps all the
better for humanity.

Will it shock if I tell you that I spent this afternoon at another
bull-fight—to compare Madrid with Seville, and to see some of the
deftest toreros in all Spain contending, Fruscuelo again con-
spicuous among them? At Seville the amphitheatre holds eleven
thousand persons, and not a place was vacant : here there are seats
for fourteen thousand, but more than half of them were empty,
though the programme and performance were of superlative ex-
eellence, and it was a gala day. Infer from this that at Madrid
people care perhaps less about bull-fights than at Seville, probably
from having them oftener. On the other hand the picadors here
seemed not quite so badly mounted as at Seville: consequently
there were fewer casualties among the horses, and the wounded
were immediately ridden from the ring.

One incident I wish to note: a noble bull, in headlong pursuit
of a chulo, cleared the barrier at a bound, just in front of where
I sat, in fact almost beneath my hand. (This is considered a rare
piece of good luck for the spectator so favoured). Round he
careered, along the narrow passage which separates the barrier from
the amphitheatre: a moment before, this passage was dotted with
gossiping attendants, and lounging amateurs, and with toreros
waiting for their turn to enter the arena: but such is the
agility of all this class at vaulting, that, in the twinkling of an
eye, the passage was cleared, and no disaster occurred.

_ The going to and coming from the course were, if possible,
more lively than at Seville, owing to the greater variety of vehicles
‘in a capital which is the residence of royalty and its followers.
‘Landaus and barouches of newest build were intermixed with:state-

492 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

vehicles of some other century, long as boats, lofty as towers, carved
and gilded, covered with armorial bearings, and most of them
painted red. In their time they may have borne the weight of kings
and queens; to-day they were freighted with artisans and shop-
keepers to overflowing, and in more than one case their charioteers,
driven from their lofty seats by the crowding, sat humbly perched
near the splinter-bars, in dangerous proximity with the heels
of their quadrupeds : still each contrived to send his team along at
a surprising pace, with tassels rebounding and bells all tinkling in
merry harmony, and without a collision. Amid all the rush and
erush of vehicles old and new, I saw not a single dispute, heard
not a single rude word ; truly the Castilian takes his amusement
in sober and stately fashion, cool and gentlemanly to the end.

And now let me tell you a little legend of genuine medimval
antiquity :

It was in the days when Madrid was still a military outpost
of the Moors, and already the tide of Christian reconquest was
advancing: towards it in deadly warfare. Manly games of skill
and daring were being celebrated in the public square of the town ;
and, foremost amongst them, a great bull-fight, in presence of the
whole assembled population of the fortress. Aliatér, the Emir's
deputy, sat in lofty state, and at his side the fair Zaida, queen of
beauty and regent of the feast. And it happened that one bull,
more fierce and active than the rest, had driven all his antagonists
from the arena, or sent them rolling in the dust. In vain the multi-
tude vociferated for the highest born and most valiant, calling on
them one after another by name to come down and test their courage
against the infuriated animal—even Aliatér had been challenged
loudly among the rest, but dared not stir from where he sat—the
beast paced about in triumph, sole master of the field... It was.
at this moment a herald announced that a young Castilian knight,
superbly mounted, was at the gates, demanding to enter the lists
alone, and bravely face the danger when all the rest refused.
The permission was promptly granted, and thus unexpectedly did
the bull-fight recommence . . . On came the animal, with seemingly
resistless fury—the charge was parried with knightly skill and
splendid horsemanship... On he came again, with redoubled
rage and speed,and when the dust cleared away, his huge form
was seen rolling on the yellow sand. Forthwith the young
Castilian, detaching with his lance the bunch of coloured rib-
bons hooked to the neck’of his dead enemy, gallantly presented
it to the fair Zaida, who as gracefully accepted ‘it, while loud

Notes of a Ghort Trip to Spain, 423

acclamations rent the air... At this a dark jealousy overspread
the brow of Aliatér, and thus he spoke : “ Not thus, sir knight, are
we wont to pay tribute to the fair, with shreds torn from the carcase
of a beast. The guerdons we present are more proudly wrung
from the helms and necks of your Christian countrymen whom we
slay in battle. At present you are my guest, so depart in peace !
should you come again, I will meet you with my steel...” Thus
spoke Aliatér; but the young Castilian, his cheeks mantling with
indignation, reined back his horse, and proudly laid his lance in
rest, in knightly token of defiance to mortal combat then and there.
Loud rose a mighty clamour; but, high above it, the sound of
clarions, the bugle-call of the gallant Christian’s retinue rushing
to his support. At their head he proudly sallied forth; but he
vowed, by the cross-handle of his matchless sword, not to doff
helmet till Aliatér and all his Moors should be driven from Madrid
for ever . , . And the capture of the fortress followed within a year.

This is one of the legends of the Cid. As a matter of fact the
capture of Madrid took place in the year a.p. 1083, so that it
harmonises very well with the period of his life; and the legend
unconsciously proves, if it proves nothing else, that at the time
when it took poetic form—say in the thirteenth or fourteenth
century—bull-fighting was an institution in vogue, in which the
noblest were expected to join. When at Seville, and speaking of the
bull-fighting there, I promised to prove a little of this, if youcame
with me as far as Madrid. I hope I have now redeemed that
promise, and that I may conclude, like the pedagogues, with a
“ quod erat demonstrandum ! ”

. * . *

I have now spent the better part of two days in the picture-
gallery of Madrid. Yesterday, being a first inspection, was
laborious: to-day, when leaving, I was quite surprised to find that
my little visit had lasted nearly six hours, so smoothly did the
minutes fly.

That the gallery here is of superlative excellence, is pretty
generally known. People wonder at the fact, considering that thie
capital occupies so secondary a share of men’s attention at present.
But let it be remembered that, just when painting was at ita zenith,
Spain, for all practical purposes, meant not only the peninsula,
but also the two Sicilies, and the Netherlands, and the German
empire for a time, and good part of upper Italy, and the wealth
of the new world, and paramount influence everywhere. No
country ever commanded such opportunities of gathering first-

424 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

class pictures; and of these opportunities its monarchs availed
themselves right royally, both in attracting great painters to their
court, and in purchasing works of art wherever money could buy
them. Titian was the personal friend and, for a long time, the most.
honoured guest of Charles V., and of his son Philip II. Velaequés
was the ditto ditto of PhilipIV. For the two former Titian almost
deserted Venice: for the latter Velasquéz made himself unknown
at Seville, his birth-place: to study Velasquez, you must come here.

Of course I could not think even of enumerating the pictures
that struck me most, but should just wish to mention a few of
those which I thought grandest of all, or especially interesting by
reason of their history.

And first Rapheel’s “Spasimo,” picture as large as the
“Transfiguration ” in the Vatican, or rather larger. It represents
our Lord falling under the cross—his mother, with arms extended,
is rushing towards him—St. John and St. Mary Magdalen support
her—a group of women sympathise—executioners and soldiers
crowd the scene—the leader is on horseback, flaunting the 8. P.
Q.R. of ancient Rome.

To my thinking, this picture equals or excels all that I
have ever seen of Raphaél, the “Transfiguration” itself not
excepted.

In this gallery you will also see Raphaél’s “ Perla,” represent-
ing the Madonna and Child, with the equally youthful St. John.
It was formerly in the collection of Carles I., which the round-
heads of England stupidly scattered, and most of which Philip
IV. secured, acting on the judicious advice of Velasquez. On
seeing it the king exclaimed: “This indeed is my pearl”—but
his eye had not been feasting on the ‘‘Spasimo” when the words
escaped his lips, for the latter is infinitely grander in every way.

As for Titian, there are pictures enough from his single brush
to form a gallery in themselves, and of every kind, mythological,
allegorical, sacred and profane. He was the only artist for whom
Charles V. would consent to sit or stand, and we have here his
picture of the emperor on horseback, in a costume of black velvet,
by no means handeome-looking, but with a dignity of bearing that
-makes this picture be considered the very finest equestrian portrait
in the world. .

‘We have here also Titian’s “ Gloria,” sent to the emperor after
his abdication, when he was already installed in his monastic cell of
8t. Just, far away in the wilds of Estremadura. It represents
prophets and patriarchs of the Old Testament, doctors and saints

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 425

of the New, in ascending tiers on the slope of a mount, and, high
ebore them all, the ew-emperor and his son Philip, receiving a specially
Savoured audience before the open court of heaven. Instead of resent-
ing the outrageous audacity of the compliment, the royal recluse
directed that the picture should be hung over his grave: and, asif
to expedite the enjoyment, ordered his funeral to be performed
forthwith, and the obsequies were accordingly celebrated before
his face. It might have further impressed his mind with the vanity
of earthly grandeur, could he have foreseen that his earnest and
emphatic command concerning the painting would before long be
coldly and utterly disregarded, as it ie now: for here the picture
hangs, for you and me to admire, while his ashes moulder far from
it, in the lonely pantheon of the Escurial.

Separated by about a century from Titian come Velasquéz and
Murillo, the former painting real life to perfection and with pre-
Raphaelite minutenese, but scarcely venturing beyond it: the latter
not fearing to soar into the highest regions of the ideal, and depict-
ing “ conceptions ” and Holy Families as they have never been rea-
lised since. One comes almost to know the royal family of Spain,
as it were intimately, from all the portraits and portrait-groups of
its members that one meets here, painted by Velasquéz, and it is
wonderful what a resemblance pervades them all. You would
probably expect to find them dark-haired and dark-eyed, bronzed -
and martial-looking. Instead of this, imagine them with flaxen
locks, cold grey eyes, flabby yellow complexion, long pointed chin
and projecting under-jaw, and you have them as drawn for them-
selves, by their own court-artist. One exception might perhaps
be made in favour of Philip IV. himself, whom Velasquéz painted
on horseback, as Titian painted Charles V., “witching the world
with noble horsemanship ! ”

There is a crucifixion by Velasquéz which impresses most peo-
ple: think I have seen something like it in Flanders, by Van
Dyke. The hair has fallen down on the forehead ; there is dark-
ness in the background. To most people this picture is emotional
to a degree.

But quite the grandest of all the pictures of Velasquéz, and
the most ambitious, is the “Surrender of Breda,” known here as
“Las Lanzas.” It hangs in a place of honour, close to the
“Spasimo” of Raphaél, and deservedly occupies the position, for
I doubt if there be any more splendid historical picture in the
world.

As for the inspired Murillo, he is here in every style, “ trio,
calido, and vaporoso.” Some of his “ conceptions” reproduce the

426 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

sunset-halo which I noted when passing through the Sierra Moréna :
the artist drew his inspiration straight from heaven. There is one
picture by him which I thought quite the most perfect in finish :
it is known to the world as “ Los Nifios de la Concha,” and artists
seemed eagerly competing with one another to copy it.

Speaking of copying, I observed an elderly lady thus engaged
in front of a lovely Claude Lorraine, representing St. Paula leaving
her Roman villa for Palestine. The golden sunrise is tinting the
transparent rippling water of the Tiber, as the young patrician
matron steps into her boat from the classic home which she is about
to leave for ever. Gorgeous trees fill the foreground : an endless
perspective of landscape spreads away in the rear. And the lady
was copying all this, with a perfection which I had never seen
before, all intent on her labour of love, from which she never
turned a glance. She wore the graceful black mantilla: a super-
annuated duefia sat watchful by- her side, knitting for ever and for
ever.

And this leads me to add that all the lady-artists whom I saw
painting here to-day and yesterday were thus protected, each by a
duejia who sat spectacled, knitting and prohibitory—all except one
bevy of maidens who, strong in their numbers, clustered in a group
without any duefia whatever. Alas! none but the aged copyist of
Claude Lorraine wore the national mantilla... Paris fashions
have reached as far as Madrid, and are steadily moving southwards,
like the Russians in Asia, with the certainty of a natural law:
but no fashion can rob those Iberian faces of their classic profile
and flashing glance !

There is one artist, a modern, and almost unknown outside
Spain, whose works are hung here with all the honours, on a level
with the great masters of the golden age. His name was Goya, and -
this century was well advanced when he died, but he could boast
that Napoleon, even at the height of all his power, could never
coax from him a portrait; the artist scorned to paint the oppressor
of his country. His are the scenes of the “ dos de Mayo,” speak-
ing records of the murderous butcheries of Murat. His brush has
a roughness of touch which makes his pictures look like unfinished
cartoons: in fact, jealous Frenchmen taught themselves flippantly to
say that he used no brush whatever, but laid on the paint in spoon-
fuls, with a real spoon, and spread it with the handle, or his thumb,
or whatever came nearest to his reach. This is another way of
saying that his easel and brush would never pander to their
master, and, for this, his grateful countrymen are doubly and justly
proud of him.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 427

“To conclude, as I really must, I would summarise my two days”
impression of this superb gallery by saying that, having visited
and somewhat studied the principal collections of Europe, except
Dresden, I would rank this with the best of them all.

. * * .

Picture-hunting, however pleasurable, is not without its
fatigues; but this evening they vanished in a delightful stroll to
the “Buen Retiro,” which represents the Champs Elysées of Paris.
You get two tickets at entrance; one to the outer park, where
coffee and ices are served under tall trees, and military bands per-
form. Here parents come with their smallest children, and the
“ nifios” and “ nifias” of the rising generation chase one another
with Arcadian freedom through the grounds—while blackbirds, not
nightingales—challenge one another in flute-like carole from the
highest boughs. Those carols are just the same as in Ireland
in early June ; here is one of them:

(pea hee

Here is another :

And a fifth :

8:

Truly “ cceli enarrant gloriam Dei! ”...

Gradually this life and song die out, and then the move is to
the inner gardens, to which the second ticket admits. Here an open-
air opera is going on, very fairly sung, and admirably acted, as it

428 Rathoay Travelling.

could scarcely fail to be in Spain, where people almost speak with
their fingers. The place is luminous with white lights in globes,
which swing in festoons from branch to branch ; their illuminating
task is an easy one in this wonderful air, for the star-lit sky almost
makes one feel that they are superfluous, except for ornament,
and to imitate Paris!

Here again, as in the outer park, the babyhood of Madrid is
conspicuous by its joyous presence, held fast captive on maternal
knees, yet sprightly and wide-awake even at this late hour. This
comes from the afternoon siesta, which cuts the long day in two,
and devotes the broiling portion to soothing slumber and repose.

But you will say that I am getting prosaic and tiresome.
To-morrow I shall be off to Toledo—there I hope we may perhaps
meet again.

RAILWAY TRAVELLING.

BY FRANCES KERSHAW.

ES, it is all very well for bachelors and maiden ladies to talk,
but, as is often the case when they open their mouths—
they are discussing a subject which they don’t in the least under-
stand. To these travelling by rail implies merely the simple fact
of being carried—free of all labour on the part of your own
stumps—from one spot in this United Kingdom to another, either
in a sleeping or waking condition as the case may be. Then let us
warn you that if (Ais be your only notion of travelling by rail, you
know nothing whatever about it, and had better say less.

Leave it to us married folks to give you our experience—a
wide and varied one. Somebody’s wife’s mother becomes suddenly
possessed with a violent longing to see “the.dear children” im-
mediately ; or one of. the said children is recovering from an attack
of fever, and must be carried off to the sea-side at once for change
of air, and to give it to other people, Well, whatever be the
reason, we make up our minds to go, and in order to do so, we
must take the train.

The children are attired in their “Sunday-go-to-meeting”
clothes with infinite pains on the part of mother and nurses, com-
bined with sundry slaps and kisses, coaxings and scoldings. By

Railoay Travelling. 429

the time that they are all ship-shape, and the luggage ready, the
cab is here to take us down to the station. Don’t our eyes open
wider and wider as we view the ceaseless flow of baggage pouring
out from the hall-door, and taking up its position on the cab-roof !
We hardly knew that the whole house contained so much before.
Do we really require all this apparatus with us P Our wife declares
that a pin less, and we must all collapse. Meekly suggest that our
grandmothers never encumbered themeelves with such an amount
of luggage in the old coaching days. Very likely, she admits ; but
then we are not our grandmothers, neither do we live in the old
coaching days—two quite incontrovertible facts. So we grumble a
little, and let the matter rest, wondering only how the porters will
like it? Here we are at the station. One or two packages alone
have capsized en route—with what damage as to contents remains
yet to be seen.

‘What says the station clock P We set all our watches by it
first thing, and for a few hours afterwards they all tell the same
tale of time. Of course we are here either punctually or unpunctu-
ally—that is to say, long before the train is due, and are wasting
our precious time miserably, dawdling up and down the platform,
with half-a-dozen children in tow; or, worse still, we are just in
good time to see the train that should have borne away our devoted.
carcases, making off for our destination without us—in impotent
wrath! We will suppose the less terrible mishap of the train to
have befallen us to-day ; the waiting-time is over at last, and the
train comes up with a snorting and a shaking of the platform,
which causes a yell from the younger bairns, who are in terror lest
the smoking monster should be meditating a direct assault upon
them. Of course we go third class. Everybody does now a-days,
except trades folk of a retiring sort and upper servants. Just as
naturally we carefully take up our position in a babyless carriage,
after much difficulty in finding one—babies are so plentiful every-
where, and especially on a railway. We hand in our own twin
cherubs with the fat nursemaid (they are by no means to be
classed with the vulgar swarm of commonplace infants!); have
comfortably settled all the packages pertaining to us overhead,
when our wife discovers that it is a smoking-carriage—a fact which
accounts for the unusual absence of babies. Of course we must
turn out for the children’s eyes’ sakes to which smoke is considered
injurious; and we range the platform wildly again for another
compartment minus the baby element. Found at last, and we take
immediate possession. Of course Jack has to be hoisted in from

480 Railuavy Travelling.

behind just as the train is starting, to our imminent risk and his
own—for he is standing stock-still on the platform, oblivious of
everything but of a “young lady” beaming distantly in a frame-
work of marvellous curls; from the other side of the counter in
the refreshment-room. Of course we have managed to leave afew
packages on the platform, after all. Of course Tommy drops his
best hat out of the window midway jbetween two stations, just
where there isn’t the remotest chance of recovering it. Of course
the shaking makes Polly sick, and Lizzie howls in all the tunnels,
Of course our caution as to babies is in vain. The next small
platform we stop at has a baby ready and waiting upon it, and of
course it makes straight for our carriage. No dodge of crowding
the whole family up to the door in order to appear overcrowded
already has the slightest effect—the only result of this stratagem
is that the new-comer takes immediate possession of the far win-
dow, whereupon our own babies how] amain. Of course the other
baby follows suit—then they all howl together ; and we form a
gracious complement to some specimens of the Salvation Army,
invisible but very audible, in the next compartment—a combina-
tion squall! And of course these and other like mishaps don’t
tend to improve the general party temper!

We are not seated five minutes before some one declares that
he is feeling the pangs of hunger very keenly, and the children
join in a renewed chorus of howls for their victuals—especially
Polly. Then follows a general rummaging of all baskets and
bags within reach for the eatables—“ refreshments,” we call them,
“ Refreshments” include a whole chicken in a state of convenient
dissection, a few dozen papers of sandwiches (“I told cook not to
put mustard in them because of the children, dear—you won't
mind!” We do, but it is of no use) and a huge bottle of milk
which, when emptied by a combination of mouths, is precipitated
from the window in ‘company with the sandwich papers, to the
imminent risk of injuring some one below. (By-the-by, have
those good people who hurl bottles from the windows of railway-
carriages any idea of the force with which they strike whatever
object comes in their way—fiying as they do through the air at
the speed of the train itselfP) We are above such sublunary
matters as “refreshments,” and having watched our youngsters
gnawing at their chicken bones for a time, subside to the enjoy-
ment of our newspaper.

We are actually suffered to read in peace for a time, and are
just coming to the conclusion: that our friends have greatly

Raihcay Travelling. 431

exaggerated the evils of travelling with children—the dear little
treasures !—when a piece of bread and butter is heaved at us with
a good aim from the other end of the carriage, and alights butter
downwards on our best coat, pursuing thence a slimy journey on
to the floor. “Ha! ha! he! he!” and there is that wretched
twin grinning with delight and preparing for a second fling! We
come round to our friends’ opinions—an advanced version of them,
in fact. But there is worseto come. The imps soon become tired
of crowding out air and light, and quarreling over the possession
of the united number of windows, and begin the dismal grumbling
which precedes a general eruption of discontent. We put away
our newspaper, look out and point to imaginary “ moo-cows” and
“baa-lambs” below, only half succeeding in our endeavours at
interesting them. Then comes a station. Point out the beautiful
pictures on its walls of her majesty in company with divers
apoplectic cattle, and other delights with better success. We our-
selves have really developed quite an affection for the artistic
advertisements of “‘Coleman’s Mustard,” ‘Glenfield Starch,’
“the Cunard Line,” “Bryant and May’s Matches,’ ‘ Epps’s
Cocoa, nutritious . . .;” one or two Biscuit Manufacturies,
“Thorley’s Food for Cattle,” and “ The Daily Telegraph.” How
we should miss their familiar faces, were they to disappear from
the station jwalls! We hardly like to imagine what our feelings
would be in such a case!

Dear, dear! Here are some more people getting in, with
market-baskets too! Why does this old dame make a point of
squeezing in her fat carcase between us and the window! What
a cram it is! We moralize on Shakespeare's well-known line, that
“Man may steam, and steami, and be a steamer! ”

We are all steaming. The only question we should like set at
rest is, is it with our own steam, or with other people’s? And
that is a question never likely to be answered, as no analyst is
present, and if he were, there is no room to analyse.

Worse and worse! The stout party near us has shut one
window, and the other can’t be opened on account of the smoke
from the engine being somewhere in that quarter. We are toasting
and roasting, grizzling and frizzling. It is always the way.
People insist upon opening every blessed window in the depths of
winter—and we all freeze! In the height of summer they daren’t
open them an inch— and we all grill!

Reduced-to watching the progress of steam down our neighbours”

432 Baileay Travelling.
faces, and listening to a few tales of recent railway murders of a
cheery nature.

Ponder over the advertisements in view on the carriage walls,
and the quaint alterations caused in them by the wit of some
mischievous youths. For instance, a placard over the door, originally
bidding us “ Wait till the train stops,” now has “ Wait till the
rain stops;” “To seat five persons” invites us “To eat five
persons.” To a placard which forbids you to put your head out
of the window, is added by some ingenious youth “ because it is
impossible ;” which is a fact, the window being barred. Another:
“ Ladies’ Coffee Room,” has in the revised version “ Babies’ Toffee
Boom.”

We are all beginning to invest in frightful headaches at this
point, which go on increasing pleasantly with every howl of the
children, every extra snort of the engine, or infernal whistle of
the same. Our eyes view things around us through an aching
medium of smuts, which have adhered only too easily to our
previously prepared countenances. The children ditto, with the
addition of a special circle of black round the eyes, due to the
efforts of grubby fists growing grubbier.

Ah, well, we are just beginning to remember, with some degree
of comfortless comfort, that there is one event unto all, when there
appears a break in the clouds nearer at hand. The guard is yelling
forth some mysterious and unrecognizable station. Ask of the fat
lady by my side what it is. Turns out to be our own much langed-
for haven. Jump out at once, shake off what remnants of refresh-
ment are still affectionately clinging to us, smooth out the creases
of our coat as far as possible—the fat body has been cushioning her
seat with the tails—hand out our precious family and their belong-
ings. Think now of the luggage in the van. Porter!

Porters all rushing hither and thither to the assistance of
screaming old ladies, who might seem to be in danger of losing
their lives rather than their luggage !—with that chivalry common
to railway porters. Porter! we cry in vain for some time; and
meanwhile those comfortable single passengers with their one
handy Gladstone and their umbrella, pass before us down the
platform continually with easy deliberateness, and bestowing a
pitying, contemptuous glance upon ourselves huddled up together
—my Gladstone having lost in the crowd of family packages that
independent dignity which is its proper right.

Porter! : Finally, chinking a few coppers in our pockets, we
have one to our side. No matter that the old ladier, losing one of

Our Poets. 488

their attendante, scowl ferociously upon us. Let them scowl! We
are proof against everything after a railway journey en famille!

Here’s wife’s mother (we don’t feel amiable enough just now
to claim her as mother-in-law). Here are sundry relatives, blooming
and summery, and cool as cucumbers! Did we ever feel so like
convicted criminals in our life before, as we do now that we face
these, grinning and steaming ? Did we ever before note our
resemblance to those woodcuts in ancient “ Pilgrim’s Progresses””
of demons struggling in pitch P Did we ever feel our right to be
enrolled in the noble army of martyrs so strongly? But our
friends—is it that they don’t recognize us, or that they won't ?

They can’t.

Make ourselves known—give proofs of our identity. Say that
we lie beneath our outward accumulated covering, like “ pearls in
ocean low,” or winged creatures chrysalised “ so far this shadow
doth limp behind the substance.” They own us—doubtfully.

A word in confidence. Travelling by rail en famille may be
very enjoyable under some aspecte—considered as an abstract point,
that is to say—but practically we don't recommend it.

OUR POETS.
No. XIV.—Karnaring Morpny (“Brian”).

N looking at the title of this paper, the reader will probably

feel “like some watcher of the akies when a new planet swims

into his ken,” so far at least as being completely unfamiliar with

“ the name with which we next propose to link the sacred name of

* “poet.” The last paper of this series began by stating that the

poets treated of in these papers will possess one or both of two

qualifications—Catholic faith and Irish blood. We once before

applied to this subject the argument of a fellow-countryman who,

when remonstrated with for chastising somewhat unduly the wife

of his bosom, replied: “ But, your Reverence, who ’ll bate her if

I don’t bate her?” If Irish critics ignore the existence of Irish

poets, the omission is not likely to be supplied by the journalists
of London. .

434 Our Poets,

Certainly these last gentlemen could not fairly be blamed for
never discovering the poetess whose name our own readers see for
the first time. Such of them as take an interest in Irish literary
matters are familiar with “ Speranza” and “Mary” of The Nation,
and perhaps even with “Eva” and “Thomasine;” but who was
“Brigid?” Though well versed in such literary signatures, we
only discovered “ Brigid ” on her deathbed. Her kind friend, Mr.
‘Thomas Sherlock, of Zhe Nation, has printed a brief sketch of her
in Young Ireland.

Her father was a coal merchant on Pope’s Quay, in Cork, and
a member of the Corporation. Her mother, whose maiden name
was Foley, was a native of Ballyhooley, near Mallow; and it was
here that Katharine Murphy was born and spent the first two or
three years of her life. There also in the end she was buried.
Amongst her relatives were Daniel Owen Maddyn and Denis
Holland—the former a friend of Thomas Davis, the latter a clever
man who, like Gavan Duffy, began his career as a journalist in
Belfast, and then sought a wider sphere in Dublin. The family
was also connected with the distinguished London physician, Dr.
Bichard Quain.

Katharine Murphy's only sister died in infanoy, her only
brother became a doctor, and gained a good position in Australia,
where he died several years ago. In the year 1864 or 1865 Miss
Murphy’s father died, and her mother had been taken from her
previously. She was thus left to fight the battle of life by herself,
and she fought it bravely. A friend writing to us, speaks of “her
unostentatious piety, her loving disposition, her candour, her com-
plete self-forgetfulness, and her anxiety to see every one happy
around her.” During the progress of the painful disease whieh
caused her death on the tenth of last April, she had to place herself
under medical treatment in the North Infirmary; and there the
venerable Bishop of Cork, Dr. Delaney, “carried the burthen of
his fourscore years and four up three flights of stairs once a week
to give her the coneolations of religion.”

Miss Murphy contributed largely to Sharp's London Magasine,
and not largely but only once to Punch. In these and in various
Irish publications she adopted various signatures, “ Bessie,”
“Ellen,” and “Elizabeth Townbridge ”—injudiciously, we think,
for why not let all the sympathy, and interest, and fame (such as
it is) cluster round one single distinguishing name, even if only a
peeudonym? But God bless her for her final choice of a nom de
plume—the name of the greatest of Irishwomen, the Teresa of the

Our Poste. 485

Celts (as M. Villemarqué calls St. Brigid), the first foundress of
all our innumerable generations of Irish nuns, never before flourish-
ing so gloriously as now. This was the name under which she
published in The Nation about ten years ago this dramatic ballad
“Sentenced to Death :”

‘With the Sign of the Cross on my forehead, as I kneel on this cowld dungeon

;
As I kneel at your feet, reverend father, with no one but God to the fore ;
With my heart opened out for your readin’ an’ no hope or thought of relase
From the death that at day-break to-morrow isstarin’ me sthraight in the face,
Ihave tould you the faults of my boyhood—the follies sn’ eine of my youth—
An’ now of this crime of my manhood I'l epake with the same open thrath.

‘You see, sir, the land wae our people's for ninety good years, an’ their toil

‘What first was a bare bit of mountain brought into good wheat-bearin’ soil ;

"Tne Theis ands raised the walls of the cabin, where our childber wor born
an’

‘Where our weddin’s an’ christenin’s wor merry, where we waked and keened.
over our dead ;

We wor honest an’ fair to the landlord—we paid him the rent to the day—

An’ it wasn’t our fault if our hard sweat he squandered an’ wasted away

In the cards, an’ the dice, an’ the racecoorse, an’ often in deeper disgrace,

That no tongue could relate without bringin’ a blush to an honest man’s face.

But the day come at last that they worked for, when the castles, the mansions,
the lands

They should hould but in thrust for the people, to their shame passed away from
their hands,

An’.our place, sir, too, wint to auction—by many the acres were sought,

An’ what cared the sthranger that purchased, who made ‘em the good soil he
bought P

The ould folks wor gone—thank God for it—where throuble or care qn't
purehue,

But the wife an’ the childher—O Father in Heaven !—what was I to do?

Still 1 thought, I'll go spake to the new man—I'll tell him of me an’ of mine;

‘The thrifle that I’ve put together I'll place in his hand for a fine:

‘Tho estate is worth six times his money, and maybe his heart isn't cowld ;

But the scoundhrel thet bought “the thief’s pen’orth” was worse than the
pauper that sow]d.

1 chased him to house an’ to office, wherever I thought he'd be met,

I offered him all he’d put on it—but no, ‘twas the land he should get ;

I prayed as men only to God pray—my prayer was spurned and denied,

‘Ant what mattered how just my poor right was, when he had the law at his
eide?

I was young, an’ but few years was married to one with a voice like a bird—

Wher she eang the ould songs of our counthry, every feeling within me was
stirred.
Vou. sur, No. 148. 38

436 Our Poets.

Ob! I see her this minnit before me, with a foot wouldn't bend a croneen,
Her laughin’ lips lifted to kiss me—my darlin’, my bright-eyed Eileen !
"Twas often with pride that I watched her, her soft arms fouldin’ our boy,
Until he chased the smile from her red lip, an’ silenced the song of her joy.

Whisht, father, have patience a minnit, let me wipe the big drops from my
brow—
Whisht, father, Il thry not to curse him; but I tell you, don't prache to me

now.

Excitin’ myself P Yes, I know it; but the atory is now nearly done;

An’ father, your own breast is heavin’—J see the tears down from you run.

Well, he threatened—he coaxed—he ejected ; for we tried to cling to the place

That was mine—yes, far more than 'twas his, sir; I tould him ao up to his face;

But the little I had melted from me in makin’ the fight for my own,

‘An’ a beggar, with three helpless childher, out on the wide world I was thrown,

An’ Eileen would soon have another—another that never dhrew breath—

The neighbours wor good to us always—but what could they do agin death ?

For my wife an’ her infant before me lay dead, and by Aim they wor kilt,

‘As sure as I'm kneeling before you, to own to my share of the guilt.

T laughed all consolin’ to scorn, I didn’t mind much what I said,

‘With Eileen a corpse in the barn, on a bundle of sthraw for a bed;

But the blood in my veins boiled to madness—do they think that a man isa log P

I thracked him once more—'twas the last time—and shot him that night like a
dog. .

‘Yes, f did it; Zshot him—but, father, let thim who make laws for the land

Look to it, whin they come to judgment, for the blood that lies red on my hand.

If I dhrew the piece, "twas they primed it, that left him sthretched cowld on
the sod ;

An’ from their bar, where I’m sintinced, I appeal to the bar of my God

For the justice 1 never got from them, for the right in their hands that’s
unknown.

Still at last, sir—I’ll say it—I'm sorry I took the law into my own;

That I stole out that night in the darkness, while mad with my grief and

despair,
And dhrow the black sow! from his body, without givin’ him time for a prayer.
Well, ‘tis tould, sir; you have the whole story ; God forgive him an’ me for our
eins;
My life now is indin'—but, father, the young ones, for them life begins;
‘You'll look to poor Eileen’s young orphansP God bless you. And now I’m at

price,
‘An’ resigned to the death that to-morrow is starin’ me sthraight in the face.

Writing to me for the first and all but the last time on the
25th of March, this year (about a fortnight before her death)
Miss Murphy said that for seven or eight years she had written
only prose. The most accessible sample of her prose is a very
amusing sketch—‘ How Tom Dillon became a Zouave”—reprinted
by Mr. T. D. Sullivan in the first series of “Irish Penny Read-
ings”—about which, by the way, good news is given among our

Our Poets. 437

book-notices of this month. This story shows a keen sense of
humour and a close acquaintance with the language, feelings, and
character of Irish people of the present day. Anthony Trollope,
in his pleasant and instructive Autobiography, tells us that the
foreman of Mr. Bentley the publisher volunteered to advise him
not to attempt the historical. Historical romance is seldom popular.
Miss Murphy founded her three longer stories on Irish history.
“ Shane the Proud” had for its hero the famous Prince of Ulster ;
“The O’Carrolls of Cloughrue” related to the Penal Days; and
her last historical tale, “ Stephen Rodway the Jeweller,” is linked
with the fortunes of the United Irishmen. We have not been
able to trace these stories through back volumes of “ Young
Ireland ;” but the report of intelligent readers makes us believe
that they are all worthy of being republished in a separate form.
Perhaps a still more agreeable and useful volume might be made
up of a selection of the best of her numberless short stories,
legends of County Cork, “some wierd and wild, others overflowing
with humour.” Of “ The O’Carrolls of Cloughrue,” named above,
Mr. Thomas Sherlock believes that “no other writer has succeeded
in delineating those hideous penal days so graphically in combina-
tion with a story of surpassing interest.”

But our business nowjis with “Brigid” asa poet. Out of a
very large collection of her poetical contributions to journals and
magazines which her dearest friend has lent to us, there are only
two or three that betray the roguishness of that Tom Dillon who
became a Papal Zouave under very peculiar circumstances. The
shortest of these is “Just for my Mother :”—

Why then, what will I do with this boy that keope teasing me
Every minute and hour of the day?

He says, “ Sometimes, dear, with your ways you are pleasing me,
And at other times putting me down in the clay.”

And at nightfall I can’t take a stroli,by the meadow,
Or sit down a moment to rest at the stile,

But, as sure as I live, there he is like my shadow,
Till in spite of myself I look up with a smile,

Then he’s telling me always to stop and hear reason,
‘And says it ao softly I can't say “I won't.”
‘While I hope in the twilight a kiss is no treason,
When because of my mother I hardly say “ don't,”
For she’s scolding me always, and says ‘you're delayin’
‘This matter too long, and the boy to your hand’;
Your father is gone, and my strength is decaying,
So I'd want some one in to lock after the land.”

438 Our Poets.

Well, the boy is a decent boy, sober and quiet,

And I’m but a light-headed, laughing colleen,
Half in dread of the world, half willing to try it,

Like the leaves in the Spring ’tween the bud and the green.
But 'tis not for myself, oh dear no! ‘tis my mother

‘Wants help, and I think that to please her I'll say,
Tl have him ; he'll do just as well as another,

So I'll take a stroll down where he's cutting the hey.

A double allowance of rhymes would have made “The Irish
Peasant Maiden” worthier of being named in the same breath
with Sir Samuel Ferguson’s “ Pretty Girl of Lough Dan.”

One summer, on a walking tour, my wayward will my only law,

Crossing a mesdow-path, at eve, Iaaw—I'll tell you what I saw—

A fair, soft-amiling Irish face, with deep-grey eyes and lashes long,

‘And rich brown hair all streaked with gold, and ripe lips bursting into song—

One of those songs they ever sing, those Irish maids, when evening falla—
Some wild verse, passionate and strong, their country’s woes or pride recalls;
Or some gay legend of their chiefs by fairy held in glittering thrall ;

Or gentle tale of love and youth—the sweetest and the best of all!

Upon a woodbine-tangled hedge one sun-kissed arm upheld her pail,

The milk within it foaming high to match her whiter throat would fail.

Beneath my gaze her song was hush’d, her brow’s pure arch drawn slowly down ;
soon her amile’s sweet sunshine burst again, and chased away the frown.

And roguish dimples pooped once more, in baby-play, from cheek and chin,
The rosy mouth half-oped, and showed the lovely, glistening pearls within.
“ Good evening, pretty girl,” I cried ; “ well met ut close of sultry day;

‘A draught of milk, from your kind hand, refreshed will send meon my way.”

“ And welcome, sir,” was her reply, a quick blush veiling all her face ;
Then bent the veasel to my lips with ready, unpretending grace.

My thirst allayed I lingered still beside her, ‘neath the sunset aky,
And giving many a merry word, received as many an arch reply.

Yot ever an expectant glance across the fields her bright eyes cast,

Until a stout young peasant lad came hastening up the path at last.
‘Then with good ove, I slyly said, “I see of me you have no need.”
She flung me back a laughing look, and nodded me a gay God speed.

'Twas scarcely fair, I freely own, yet one short glance I cast behind—

Pausing as if to lift my hat, and bare my hot brow to the wind—

In time to catch the eager kise which claimed the shy, young, promised wife.

‘Well, well; the pair are fitly matched : God speed them on their way through
life!

“Mary” of The Nation, whom this magazine has taken some
pains to make known as widely as possible both under that name

Our Poets. 439

and under her religious title of “ Sister Mary Alphonsus,” as well
as by her own sweet name of Ellen Downing—“ Mary” and
“ Brigid,” lived together in Cork, but we do not know that they
ever met one another. The later Muse sings the praises of the
river Lee in stanzas that recall the old “Spirit of Zhe Nation ;"*
but we prefer to them, as our last extract, “ The Mother’s Vision.”
Constantly, all the world over, the heart of some young Rachel
or other is needing such consolation as “ Brigid” tries here to
give the poor bereaved mothers.

“Hush! do not weep: it is over now. Patience!” they calmly said,

Voxing with words my wearied car, while my child in my arms lay dead;

I stooped, with passionate grief, to kiss the little pallid face,

That, like to a waxen image, lay in my clasping arma’ embrace,

1 passed my fingers once again through the soft, bright curling hair,

And drew the head to my desolate heart, that should never again rest there;

I kissed the dimpled hands and feet, and the broad, white, blue-veined breast,

And my heart could not feel, nor my lips confess that “God took him for the
best.”

I wanted my baby all night long, to rest near my doting heart ;

I wanted to watch his cradled sleep, with his rosy lips apart;

I wanted my baby's little hands, to play with my loosen’d hair;

I wanted my baby’s babbling tones, to win me from every care.

I wanted my boy, I wanted him to grow up amid other men;

That, as my own life waned away, I might live in his life again;
And ad my heart was sore, O my heart was sore, when they laid him beneath the

road not to Heaven its angel give, I gradged him to his God.

I could not weep, but my wild complaint rang ceaseless night and day:

“ Why were all other infants left, and my infant snatched away?”

Till at length, in the depths of the silent night, a form before me stood,

Whose presence filled my heart with joy, though a strange awe chilled my

*Twas the little child, ‘twas the little ehild they had taken from me away,
From the warm clasp of my loving arms, to place him in damp cold clay;
In snowy robes, with two soft white wings, the flowers of the Better Land
His brow enwreathed, while a small gold harp he held in his little hand.

But the cherub face, in his infant life, which was ever so bright and glad,
Seemed downcast now, and his large blue eyes were filled with tear-drops sad :
I was silent first, but strong mother's love soon o’ercame my human foars,
And I asked my boy why angel-eyes were thus filled with mortal teers.

“Mother,” he said, “from whore I was laid to rest, ‘neath the fresh green sod,
‘Has gone up your wild despairing cry—' I grudge him to his God! -

It darkens my spirit, even there, ‘mid the happy angel-band,

And the harp, which God's purest praise should hymn, hangs sileht-in my Hand.

440 Notes on New Books.

“But He is Love, and a pitying glance has east on thy sinful woe,

And to win back thy soul to peace, has sent me to tell thee what now I know.
‘Mother, had I to manhood grown, my nature fierce and wild

Would have steeped my soul in darkest sin, and God took your little child.

“Tn tonderest mercy parting us, for a few brief passing years,

That we may meet again, to know no partings, griefs, or tears:

‘Then humbly bow thy will to His whose mercy heme us round,

That the cloud from my spirit may pass away, and my harp with his praise
* resound! ”

As hespoke, my heart was softening fast; as he ceased, my infant amiled,
With a ray so bright of Heaven's own light, that I scarcely knew my child:
His white wings moved, and beneath his touch the harp gave forth a sound
Which steeped my soul in bliss so deep I knew not what passed around.
‘When it died away, the child was gone, my little angel-son ;

But I knew by the tears, now shed at last, that God's victory was won.

‘With morning light, by the grave I knelt—the dew yet gemmed the sod—
And with an humbled, contrite heart, gave him and myself to God.

NEW BOOKS.

Tae size of a book ought to count for something when the additional
bulk is not attained by mere padding or bookmaking. On this principle
precedence must be assigned thismonth to the large volume, the first
of five, in which Mr. Joseph Gillow hopes to complete his “ Biographi-
cal Dictionary of English Catholics, from the breach with Rome in
1534 to the present time” (London: Burns & Oates). This first
volume of more than six hundred royal octavo pages contains only the
first three letters of the alphabet. It contains excellent accounts of
persons so recently dead as James Burns the Publisher, and even Dr.
Coffin, late Bishop of Southwark. The compilation is the fruit of
most zealous and long continued labours, and it will be, when completed,
an extremely valuable addition to Catholic literature. We trust that
Mr. Gillow will be encouraged and aided in bringing ont the remaining
volumes as speedily as possible. The mechanical arrangements of type
are most useful in distinguishing the biographical from the bibliographi-
cal portions of the work. The interesting sketch of Mr. Charles
Butler seems somewhat too colourless on the Veto question. Each
volume ought to contain a list of the names contained in it, without
waiting for the completion of the work, which will not, we trust, be

Notes on New Books. 441

delayed longer than is necessary for a task of such difficulty and
magnitude.

Monsignor George Dillon, D.D. of Sydney, who during his vacation
in Europe has done much for the honour of Our Lady of Good
Counsel, has published through Messrs. Gill and Son of Dublin a very
full report of his Edinburgh Lectures on “the War of Antichrist with
the Church and Christian Civilization.” The author describes his
work as “a review of the rise and progress of atheism, its extension
through Voltaire, its use of freemasonry and kindred secret societies fo .,
antichristian war, the union and ‘Illuminism’ of masonry by Weis-
haupt, its progress under the leaders of the first French Revolution,
and under Nubius, Palmerston, and Mazzini, the control of its hidden
‘inner circle’ over all revolutionary organizations, its influence over
British Freemasony, its attempts upon Ireland; and the oaths, signs,
and passwords of the three degrees, &c., &0.””

Mr. Richard E. White of San Francisco, who in his poems has paid
eloquent tribute to the missionary apostle of his adopted country, has
also devoted a prose brochure to the memory of Father Juniper Serra
and to the mission church of San Carlos del Carmelo.

We can do no more than call the attention of those of our readers
whom it may concern to the appearance of a very important work on
the subject of Natural Theology—‘‘ De Deo Disputationes Metaphysioa,
quas excipit Dissertatio de Mente 8. Anselmi in Proslogio,” by the Rev.
Joseph M. Piccirelli, 8.J., Professor of Dogmatic Theology in the
College of Ucles. The work is sdmirably brought out both as to paper
and type. Much pains have been expended on the part of the author
in the ordering and arrangement of the matter, forty pages being
devoted to an Index at the end. Father Piccirelli enters at greater
length than is usual in works on Natural Theology into the question of
the Divine Concursus.

Sir John Oroker Barrow, Bart., has published a new volume of
“Thoughts in Verse” to which he has given the title “ Towards the
Trath” (London: Longman and Co.). In a notice of au earlier
volume it was stated in this magazine (Vol. IV., page 539), that his
name marks his connection with the famous Isaac Barrow, and through
his wife with John Wilson Croker. He is a convert to the Catholic
faith, and in the present volume he tries to give “ a reason for the
faith that isin him.” In seventy detached yet consecutive poems, each
consisting of four “ In Memoriam” stanzas, he traces rapidly in out-
line the whole scheme of the Christian religion, and he does so, as an
accomplished critic has pronounced, in finished and regular verse, lucid,
simple, and melodious. We have studied the poem carefully, and with
much edification at its thoughtfulness and sincerity. The only amend-
ment we should propose towards a new edition is of avery petty and
technical kind—a much less liberal use of that, slovenly, mark of
punctuation, the dash.

412 Notes on New Books.

The Editor of The Nation has cegun the publication of a new series
of “Irish Penny Readings.” The first Number consists of thirty-two
compact pages of prose and verse—the prose by Thomas Sexton, M.P.,
Lord O’Hegan, Richard Power, M.P., John Mitchel, Charles Staart
Parnell, M.P., Mrs. Sarah Atkinson and the Rev. John Behan; the
verse by A M. Sullivan, T. D. Sullivan, M.P., Daniel Crilly, John
Keegan, John Todhunter, and the Rev. Abraham Ryan. Not a bad
pennyworth to begin with!

Frederic Pustet of Ratisbon and New York—who may, we think,
claim to be the greatest ecclesiastical publisher in the world—has sent
us the fifth volume of “ Dissertationes Selects in Historiam Ecclesias-
ticam,” by Dr. Bernard Jungmann, the distinguished professor of
ecclesiastical history and patrology in the Catholic University of
Louvain. The previous four volumes, each consisting of about five

” hundred pages, contained twenty-two dissertations concerning the most

interesting and most important questions in the first eleven centuries
of the history of the Ohristian Church. The present volume contains
from the 23rd to the 28th dissertation and relates to the twelfth century.
The discussion of the relations between St. Thomas of Canterbury and
King Henry I. is followed by an appendix of twenty pages De Henrict
I. in Hiberniam ezpeditione, which does not overlook the most recent
writers in The Irish Ecolesiastical Record, and comes down so closely to
the present time as to quote the first Australian Cardinal as “ illustris-
simus Patritius Moran, praesul Ossoriensis in Hibernia, modo archiepis-
copus Sydneyensis in Australis.” Dr. Jungmann holds that there are
grave arguments against the genuineness of the supposed letter of
Pope Adrian IV.; but, as those arguments can perhaps not be
considered decisive, he gives an interpretation of the Pope's concession
which lessens the difficulties of the question.

The most literary of the daughters of Mother Catherine Macauley
and her best biographer is Mother Mary Teresa Austin Carroll,
Superior of the Sisters of Mercy in New Orleans. Her last publication
is a little book of thirteen lectures for a Spiritual Retreat, written down
by herself just after they had been delivered by a holy secular priest
in a convent in the south of Ireland some thirty years ago. The book
is another of the many which bear the imprint of the Catholic Publi-
eation Society, New York.

One of the Annuals that used to come out before most of our
readers were born, contained an amusing sketch, “Too Handsome for
Anything.” There is no doubt that exterior gifts of a certain kind
are sometimes supposed to be incompatible with the possession of
higher intellectual qualities, and in material things ugliness and utility
go together. Somewhat on this principle the luxurious get-up of
“Wild Flowers, by Ruth A. O'Connor” (New York : Oatholic Publica-
tion Society) has prejudiced certain austere critics against it. “ Gold

Notes on New Books. » 443

‘Wild Flowers stray over an ‘ssthetic’ green cover; the paper is as
thick as could be put into any book, unless cardboard were used; and
the print and proof-reading are beyond reproach.” Yet in spite of
this sumptuous exterior there is much beauty within. The simple
affection of the dedication of the book to the poet’s mother prepossesses
the reader in its favour from the first; and a graceful and tender
feeling pervades all the prose and verse. For it is not all a book of
poems, though indeed the prose sketches are also unrhymed poems for
the most part and full of a sentimental melancholy which we ahould
like to see replaced by a healthier and more cheerful spirit.

Some of our readers may have enjoyed the intellectual treat afforded
by the late Mr. J. M. Bellew in his public Readings. On some occasions
one of his selections was “ The Battle of Fontenoy” by Mr. W. J.
Corbett, M.P. Mesars. M. H. Gill & Son have recently brought out a
new edition of this fine historical poem, to which the author has pre-
fixed an interesting introduction, which, if justice were done to it by a
less modest type, would change the edition into a more pretentious
form than that of shilling pamphlet.

Less popular in its subject is another poem which issues simultane-
ously from the same prolific prees— Philosophia, a Lyrical Sequence,
by the author of ‘ Union unto Perfection.’”” One would need a large
share of the author's enthusiastic love of philosophical thought and
language to appreciate the very peculiar form into which he has here
thrown his deep and edifying meditations.

Messrs. Bensiger Brothers of New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis
have brought out in most readable type an excellent paper, a work by
the Rev. Dr. Allen of South Africa, which his bishop Dr. Ricards
recommends in an earnest preface. It is entitled “Our Own Will, and
How to Detect it in our Actions.” The author further describes these
instructions as intended for religious and also applicable to all who aim
at a life of perfection. This pious missionary is, we believe, a native
of Wexford. His experience in connection with the holy Dominican
convent which Sion Hill, Blackrock, has sent forth to this great con-
tinent, gives a practical value to his counsel. Plain English, especially
with an Irish accent, brings such teachings home more effectively to
many readers than translations from the French.

The Art and Book Company of Leamington send three excellent
books brought out in a cheap and serviceable manner. ‘“ Facts of Faith,
or First Lessons in Christianity” is compiled by the Rev. A. Bromley
Crane of St. Wilfrid’s, Cotton. It contains a vast amount of religious
instruction conveyed in a very systematic, clear, and pithy way. We
are informed that the work has been carefally revised by several Pro-
feaeors of Theology.

The second book received from these publishers is a revised and
enlarged edition of a Letter on the Validity of Anglican Orders by

444 Notes on New Books

Father J. D. Breen, 0.8.B. Though enlarged, it is comprised within
sixty pages. It is a fine example of clearness and condensation.

The third book is Father Bourdaloue's Spiritual Retreat, not for
the use of the pious faithful, but of the pastors of souls.

Henry Conscience, the Flemish Catholic novelist, has a high
reputation. A story of his that we have just read hurriedly—‘‘ The
Lost Glove” (Burns and Oates)—seems very aimless and plotless.
Perhaps its sequel, “ The Pale Young Lady,” throws some light on
the subject. If so, it is unfair to publish “ The Lost Glove” asa
separate and independent work.

Not by any means plotless, but with plot galore—“ lashin’sand lavin's”
of plot, is Miss Henrietta Brownell’s “ God's Way, Man’s Way : a Story
of Bristol” (New York Publication Society.) The title ia not at allhappy
or characteristic. The Bristol where most of the scenes are laid isa town
of Rhode Island in the United States. Thereis a great variety of charac-
ters, male and especially female, Protestant and Catholic. The “clam-
bake” is described from riper knowledge than the shipwreck ; and the
feminine Enoch Arden is hardly made sufficiently probable. But it is a
clever story written with good purposes. The occasional Americanisms
add a pleasant flavour to the style, but not certainly those grandiloquent
expressions which we have noticed in the writings of some American
Catholic ladies—perhaps because we generally read Catholic Americans.
“Cousin Cynthia resumed narration,” that is, went on with her story.
“Infrequent visitation,” that is, the fewness of his visits. These of
course are extreme examples, but why are they to be found in this
pretty book with its attractive cover aud its clumsy name?

A book, beautiful in its simplicity and fervour, is “ A Troubled
Heart, and How it was Comforted at Last” (Ave Maria Press, Notre
Dame, Indiana). It is the story of a conversion, and the writer,
beginning with the misty days of a sensitive, poetical childhood, tells
of the pain, and doubt, and unsatisfied yearnings of a tender heart that
was only comforted when it was brought to the Lord’s feet in the one
Fold of Him, the true Shepherd. The story is told with a frank and
innocent simplicity that must at once take captive the reader, and
withal, the literary style of it is excellent, straightforward, and crystal-
clear—in fact, in its candid simplicity, an excellent example of the
“ sweetness and light” which Mr. Matthew Arnold preaches and prays
for. We hope the book will come to the hands of many who are yet
lingering without the threshold of the Church longing for its safety and
sheltering, yet hesitating with a half-fear over the irrevocable step
which will bring them within these; the clear message of the story
ought to tell tidings of the peace that pasreth understanding to many
a troubled heart, and to call many such a one to the only place where
that peace is to be found. And Catholics may well be made ashamed
in presence of this fervent soul, springing with such sweet, and fresh

A Comforter. 445

ardour to the faith which we who are born in it never thank God
sufficiently for; God grant that it may come with this lesson to many a
Inkewarm Catholic. The book, over which we would fain linger
lovingly, is worthy to be issued under the auspices of Our Dear Lady,
as it seems to be, with her most sweet name like her “ Imprimatar ”
shining on its title-page.

We have received from the Catholic Truth Society a large number
of very interesting and useful leaflets and little books—we shun the
word tract as offensive to pious ears from its evil associations. It is
impossible to describe them individually, but we advise priests and
others who wish to do good in this way to apply for a list of the
Society's publications to the secretary at 18 West Square, South-
wark, London, 8.E., who will be glad to send prospectuses explaining
the objects and working of the Association. Several very useful
temperance leaflets are issued from the same address ; but these do not
belong to the Catholic Trath Society. The controversial papers are
more needed in a country like England and especially a place like
London; but a great many of the Society’s publications are of a
devotional character and will be useful for all. Religious pictures are
part of their stock; and there are several books, only a penny each,
containing many edifying stories. Two of the best pennyworths are
“The Lingard Papers” (short instructions on the sacraments) and
eleven “English and Irish Martyrs.”

A COMFORTER.
BY EVELYN PYNE.

1H my beloved, and must I stand aside?
I who had given my very soul for thee,

‘Made sweet my heart for thy heart's sanctuary,
And sot theo on life's altar, glorified
With the flame-fair crown of love? Would I had died

Ere yet this bitter dole were laid on me,

‘To watch through scorching tears, to watch and see
Thy face turn from my pleading, scornful-eyed !

Child! Ohild! If this false love had kissed thine eyes,
‘They had grown blind to beckoning stars and sun,
Nor seen how on the cross sad waited One

To lead thee with pierced hands to Paradise!

Most blest art thou! He thrusteth not aside,

But, yearning for thy love, hangs crucified!

( 446.)

WINGED WORDS.

Tas tone of good society is marked by the absence of personalities.
Among well-informed persong there are plenty of topics to discuss,
without giving pain to anyone present—withont submitting to act the
part of a butt, or of that still poorer creature, the wag who plays upon
him.—Haslitt.

People had much rather be thought to look ill than old: because it
is possible to recover from sickness, but there is no recovering from
age.—The Same.

The art of life is to know how to enjoy a little and to.endure much.
—The Same.

It is an inexorable law of human souls that men fit themselves for
sudden deeds by that repeated choice of good and evil which slowly
determines character.— George Eliot.

If you cannot be happy in one way, be happy in another. Many
in this world run after happiness like an absent-minded man hunting
for his hat, while all the time it is on his head or in his hand.— Con-
versation” Sharpe.

Optimum eligite, et consuetudo faciet jucundissimum. I feel a difficulty
about getting up, and I parley with the fault; the only method is to
obey the rule instantly and without a moment's reflection.—Sydney

* Smith.

The disciples of the Sacred Heart are never hard to please with
others, but only with themselves.—X. 8.

It is well to have as little self-will and as much obedience as possible
in everything that we try to do for God.—. R.

If a man is busy, and busy about his duty, what more does he
require for time or for eternity P—Rev. Charles Kingsley.

I believe not only in “ special providences ” but in the whole universe
as an infinite complexity of special providences.—The Same.

When we see how little we can express, it is a wonder that any one
ever takes up a pen a second time.—Nathantel Hawthorne.

Words so innocent and powerless are they as standing in a
dictionary; how potent for good and evil they become to one who
knows how to combine them.—The Same.

Every great writer may be at once known by guiding the mind far
from himself, to the beauty which is not of his creation and the know-
ledge which is past his finding out.— Ruskin,

It is an ancient saying that labour is the price which the gods have
set upon everything valuable—Str Joshua Reynolds.

Joy is but a second, sorrow but a minute, life but a day, and the
three realities are God, creation, and virtue.—John Paul Richter.

A father would disinherit his son, a friend would put away from
him the friend of his bosom, if his love were requited as we requite
the love of our Heavenly Father.—Fuber.

MAROELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

Avrmon or “ meetan’s m1eTORY,” “THR WIOEED WOODS OF TOBERERVIL,” “ELDEROOWAM,”
‘THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETO., ETC.

CHAPTER XX.
IN THE DOCK.

Avtumy, so bewitching in Ireland, with the rare violets of morning
and evening mists, the dewy brilliance of its foliage under heavens
of tender grey, and its late bird-songs, had disappeared behind the
verge of winter, and the shortening and‘darkening days had brought
the gentry of Dublin back to squares and streets, out of the neigh-
bouring country. The approaching trials of the men in prison for
the murder of Mr. Ffont were looked forward to as something
sensational in the way of trials, by such people (who are to be found
in every community) as take a morbid pleasure in events of the
kind. In this case the fact that a gentleman was one of the accused
enhanced the general interest in the matter, and genteel Dublin
had something to talk about while it cleaned its windows, a happy
feat, in general too rarely accomplished, and hung up its lace
curtains, and did not arrange its window flower-boxes, because
genteel Dublin despises the graceful custom cherished elsewhere
as one of the fairest signs of civilised living, that of clothing the
grim stone-work of its window-sills with a little fringe of bloom.
The reason is difficult to seek, in a sentimental and beauty-loving
population. Poverty has béen pleaded as an apology for the dark
gaunt exterior of our dwellings, yet how easily a few shillings or
pounds are spent on some tawdry delight. In poorer homes on the
outskirts of the city, sometimes even in wretched lanes, one sees
windowfuls of flowers, but the mansions of the upper ten remain
guiltless of such frivolity. An exception here and there proves the
-rule, and one blesses the individual who breaks the grim law which
says, “ Thy dwelling, if respectable must be dingy and unlovely,”
and flings out a handful of beauty to gladden the eye of the
passer-by.

The long interval of weeks between the autumn day when
Bryan had striven with the madness in her, and conquered, and

VoL. xni., No. 147. September, 1885.

448 Marcella Grace.

the time appointed for the trial, had been in great part spent by
Maroella on a bed of fever from which she had risen stronger and
calmer in mind, if shattered in body. As soon as the crisis of
the illness was past and she was delivered from delirium, her
evidence had been given from her sick-bed, that damning evi-
dence against Kilmartin which she had hoped death might have
enabled her to withhold. She had not died, however, and now
that the worst she could do had been done, the next best thing to
dying with her cruel tale untold, was to grow strong, and help him
to fight out his battle to the bitter end. This she set herself to
accomplish in as far as was possible, that she might not, through
faltering and weakness, disgrace him and herself by a seeming
consciousness of guilt in him.

Early in December the trials opened in the old court-house in
Green-street, situated among the slums on the north side of the
city. Before Kilmartin’s turn arrived, two men, Fenians, were
tried, also for the murder of Mr. Ffont, were convicted without
difficulty and sentenced to death. Two others of the eame band
had saved their lives by offering to inform on Kilmartin, and were
to be produced on his trial as chief evidence against him. And
one rainy, miserable morning, an immense crowd, fashionable and
unfashionable, men and women, thronged the dingy court-house to
suffocation, for the pleasure, pain, or curiosity of seeing Bryan
Kilmartin take his stand in the dock.

There were two judges on the bench; one small, keen, grey-
featured, unpopular, with a reputation for inhuman eagerness to
convict, the other large, placid, deprecating, with an indescribable
expression in his eyebrow, which somehow conveyed the idea to
the wretches who hung upon his looks and words that he would
always be willing to save a prisoner when he could, and that to
pronounce a hard sentence almost gave him his death blow. To
Marcella, sitting veiled in black in a corner of the court, they both
looked, in their long grey wigs and ermines, simply wolves in sheep's
clothing, and nothing more.

Miss O'Donovan sat beside Marcella and exchanged greetings
with her fashionable friends whose eye-glasses were often levelled
at the pale face of the heiress of Distresna. It was decided that
Miss O'Kelly made an unnecessary display of her interest in the
prisoner, unless indeed, she was engaged to him as had been
rumoured, only that seemed too absurd to be true. No girl would

herself to a man on his trial for murder, at least no girl
like this, with the world at her feet. However, sitting there, with

Marcella Grace. 449

her drooped eyelids, raised only at times in the direction of the
prisoner, or for a swift, proud, wide-eyed glance round the crowded
court, she made a point of keen interest in the drama, the more eo
as the part she played was not at all clearly understood.

The prisoner stood in the dock, slightly leaning forward, with
his arms folded and resting on the bench in front of him. Except
for traces of mental suffering in the dark shadows about his eyes,
he looked well, with the air of a man who knew how to be brave
in adversity.

Serjeant Fitzgerald opened the case for the prosecution with a
grave reference to the position of the prisoner at the bar asa
gentleman and landowner, and spoke of his late father as one whom
many remembered and esteemed for his genial and social qualities.
He himself (Serjeant Fitzgerald) had known the late Mr. Kilmar-
tin, and was thankful that his old friend was not alive to see
this melancholy day. After hasty but effective use of a white
pockethandkerchief, the learned counsel proceeded to state the
circumstances arrayed against Bryan Kilmartin, showing him to
be guilty of the murder of his fellow-man, and still worse,
his fellow-landlord. It was not all in a day that this young man
had quitted honest ways, and wandered into paths of abysmal
darkness and crime. Though the son of a father who had been
content to live peaceably on his estate and take things as he found
them, Bryan Kilmartin hed early shown proclivities leading him
to evil companionship and disreputable practices. While still a
mere youth he had joined the Fenian Society, and had stolen from
hie father’s house at night to learn the use of fire-arms for wicked
purposes, drilling with some of the lowest of the population in
secret recesses of his native mountains.

“His evil courses being discovered by his father, he was sent
to the University of Cambridge, thus getting a chance to put
himself straight, a chance which does not come in the way of all
youthful wrong-doers. However, though it must be acknowledged
that while at college Kilmartin distinguished himself and won
good opinions, socially as well as intellectually, yet so deeply did
the dark stain which had early appeared in him run through all
his actions, that, on his return to Ireland after a lapse of some years,
we find him renewing his connexion with Fenianism, and identify-
ing himself with so-called Nationalists in politics. Yet he had
learned caution, and so carefully did he proceed that but little
evidence exists of the communication which since that time he has
undoubtedly carried on with the leaders of Communism’ and

450 Harcella Grace.

Socialism. One, however, will presently appear in the witness-
box who will make startling revelations on this point.

“ After his respected and lamented father’s death Bryan Kilmar-
tin quitted the respectable roof under which he had been reared,
and, leaving it to ruin and decay, withdrew himself from all the
pleasant social ways of his neighbours and old friends,and burrowed,
if I may be permitted to use the expression, in a rude dwelling
among the barren rocks of a small island, mysteriously placed, as.
if intended by nature for the home of a pirate or conspirator, in
the waters of a lonely lake among the mountains of Connemara.
‘Why he deserted the open highways of the world and preferred
to hide himself in this savage dwelling, will presently be seen.
His father’s wealth disappeared ; it was not spent upon himself,
nor upon that unhappy lady his mother, who had followed him
with a mother’s devotion to his unnatural lurking-place. It had
disappeared into the coffers of the secret societies, to encourage
the manufacture of dynamite, to purchase the secret gun for the
skulking murderer, to fee the wretch who lies in wait for his
victim behind the—the—the aroma of the flowering hedge-rows !

“ But the secret society whose oath he had taken, to obey whose
orders he had pledged himself, is not satisfied with any one particu-
lar service from its votaries, but must have all it demands, and at
the moment when it chooses to make its demand. It was decreed
by the iniquitous councils of such a society that Mr. Gerald Ffreuch

. Ffont was to die, and the lot to personally conduct, if I may use
a modern phrase, this atrocious murder fell upon Mr. Bryan Kil-
martin. That he did not attempt to shirk this awful responsibility
I think we shall be able to prove. That he cunningly took every
precaution to hide his guilty part in the transaction will also be
made plain in this court. The deed was not done in the country
where Kilmartin was known by appearance to everyone, but in the
crowded slums of the city of Dublin where his escape from detec-
tion was more likely to be assured. On a dark winter's night Mr.
Ffont's steps were dogged, and he was cruelly done to death by a
band of assassins, four of whom were seized, while one, the ring-
leader, was known to have mysteriously escaped.”

Counsel then went on to describe the flight of Kilmartin and
the search made for him by the police in a house where he had
taken refuge, a search which proved fruitless, in consequence as it.
would be seen, of the circumstance that a secret closet existed in that
house, and also thanks to the skill and devotion of friends of the
fugitive who were then dwelling in that house.

Hareella Grace. 451

“ But the sword of justice, parried though it may be fora time
by the—the spasmodio efforts of treachery and guilt, will in time,
providentially, find its way home at last,” continued the learned.
serjeant. ‘Some one has aptly said ‘though the mills of God
grind slowly yet they grind exceeding small,’ and so, after almost.
a year of delay and difficulty, the chain of evidence against this
unhappy young man is complete. Evidence to corroborate the story
which the informers have got to tell will not be found wanting,
and proof the most conclusive of his guilt is about to be laid before
this court and the world.”

The above slight sketch gives but a faint idea of the length,
force, and oonclusiveness of the story told by Serjeant Fitzgerald
in opening the case for the prosecution. His words were listened
to with breathless interest, and the general feeling in court when
he sat down was that no attempt from the other side could do away
with the effect of such an indictment. The voice of the accuser,
raised as much in sorrow as in anger, broken with emotion, or
swelling with righteous wrath, was in itself a powerful engine of
the outraged law. That the old friend of the prisoner's father
should find himself obliged to arraign and condemn the erring son
seemed in itself overwhelming testimony of the guilt of the
accused,

A considerable number of witnesses were called for the prose-
cution, besides the Fenian informers, who gave evidence to prove
the trath of some of Serjeant Fitzgerald’s statements. It was
true that young Kilmartin had become a Fenian at sixteen years
of age, true that his father had done all in his power to break the
dangerous connection his son had formed, equally true that the
late Mr. Kilmartin had been quite unable to accomplish this object,
and had in consequence died of a broken heart. All this was
triumphantly proved by Fenian as well as other testimony, and who
should know better than the Fenians themselves? The counsel
for the defence did not make any attempt to shake the evidence of
the prisoner's early Fenianism, though a few telling points were
elicited in cross-examination as to the habits of Mr. Kilmartin
senior, and the cause of his death; but the informer who witnessed
to the prisoner's intercourse with the heads of secret societies, and
the renewal of his allegiance to Fenianism in its more modern and
deadly form, after the father’s death and the arrival of the younger
man at years of maturity, was somewhat roughly shaken by the
prisoner’s counsel.

And then, towards the close of the first day’s proceedings, the

452 Marcella Grave. -

plot thickened, and the witnesses for the prosecution who.could
tell the tale of what ooourred on the night of the murder of
Gerald Ffrench Ffont, having been concerned in the affair them-
selves, and gained their pardon by turning Queen's evidence, were
put in the witness-box, one after the other, and their examination
and cross-examination had not come to an end when the court was
under necessity of rising for that evening.

According to their story Mr. Ffont, who hed been a hard man
as well as a bad landlord, having fairly earned by his inhuman
conduct the detestation of the people living at his mercy, had been
tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death by the society which
sits in judgment on such tyrants. The lot to conduct the murder,
and see that it was properly carried out, had fallen upon Mr. Bryan
Kilmartin, and he was bound by his oath to obey orders. On the
night of the murder he was on the spot, and gave the signal to fire
on Mr. Ffont. The police coming quickly upon them, the band of
assassins separated and fled. They, the informers, who had been
of the band, did not know, of their own knowledge, where Mr.
Kilmartin had taken refuge, but they believed that he had friends
in the neighbourhood prepared to receive and hide him. This
was the evidence of the two informers, given with abundance of
detail, and sifted and searched in cross-examination by the counsel
for the defence, without eny noteworthy appearance of breaking
down.

Marcella kept her eyes fixed on the faces of the informers all
the time of their examination, and one of them especially excited
her horror. He was a pallid, consumptive-looking creature, with
narrow sharp-featured face, and shifting eyes that never seemed to
look straight at anything. He gave his evidence with a certain
dogged air of determination, a great deal of meaning in a few
words, which carried force with it for the moment and impressed
court and jury with a belief in the truth of his story. He appeared
to resent his position as an informer, and made his statements with
a bitterness that seemed to wish them unsaid. All thie, which
told strongly with his audience, roused in Marcella a sense of
amazed loathing which almost suffocated her, and her fascinated
gaze remained riveted to his evil countenance so long that it
became imprinted on her brain with a vividness not likely to be
effaced while she lived.

‘When he ceased speaking and was removed, a faintness seized
her, and it required all her strength of will to stave off the swoon
which would have made her an object of curiosity to the court.

x

Harcella Grace. 458

When she had mastered the weakness so far as to be able to
raise her eyes and emerge from her corner she found that Bryan
bad vanished from the dock, that the court had risen, and that
people were pressing out of the court-house, and she followed in
the wake of the crowd, to pass the dreadful night as best she
might.

The next morning she was in her place again, listening to the
final examination and cross-examination of the informer Barrett,
whose foul, false testimony she was now to be commanded to cor-
roborate. When her name was called there was a sudden dead
silence in court, then a flutter of whispers and pressing forward
of faces as everyone asked his neighbour if he had heard aright.
‘The sensation was ao great that for a few moments everything was
at a standstill. Marcella heard the sound of the smothered
excitement of numbers like the hissing of a great wave about to
overwhelm her, and then was conscious of nothing but Bryan’s
smile of encouragement straining towards her from his isolated
standing-place in the dock.

So well had the seoret been kept that when Miss O'Kelly arose
and left her seat to take her place in the witness-box the crowd
was at a loss to know whether she was going to give testimony
against or in favour of Kilmartin.

Considering all the circumstances, the latter conclusion was
jumped at by the majority, and there was a momentary revulsion
of feeling in favour of the prisoner.

This girl, this heiress, this wayward heroine, had got in her
powerful little hand some telling piece of evidence in favour of her
friend, perhaps her lover. She. was going to prove an alibi, or to
attempt to prove one. A wave of sympathy went towards her as
she took her stand in the witness-box and threw back her black
gauze veil which made an inky framework for her deathly white
features.

With her large dark eyes wide open and fixed on some distant
point before her, she looked like one in a trance. “ She will faint,”
was whispered among the younger barristers, and a glass of water
was placed beside her ; which, however, she did not see. “ Why does
she look so terribly, if she is going to help him?” asked one
woman of another. No one noticed for the moment that it was as
@ witmess for the prosecution she had been called. Mr. Shine,
junior counsel for the prosecution, raised his face towards that spot
in the court from where the soft eyes of Miss Eyre were gazing
down, full of sympathy at the witness, and got in return’a’glance

4b4 Marcella Grace.

which seemed to say that things were beginning to take a good
turn, good at least in the estimation of this young lady whose
interest in Marcella had beguiled her into becoming a spectator of
the scene.

At the sound of the counsel’s voice directing his first question
towards Miss O’Kelly an absolute hush fell on the audience, and
intense and breathless silence reigned in the court.

CHAPTER XXI.
CORROBORATIVE EVIDENCE.

“Miss O’Kelly.”—Counsel’s voice trembled a little and he paused
for a second. He was a father of daughters, and knew something
of the story of this girl, whose heart, now laid bare to his arrows,
he was bound to lacerate.

“Miss O'Kelly, I shall be obliged to ask you a few questions
as to your own personal history. Your real name is not O'Kelly,
but was assumed in compliance with the desires of the deceased
lady whose heiress you have become. Is this so?”

“It is so?”

“ What is your real name?”

“ Marcella Grace.”

“Up to the month of January last you had lived in rather poor
circumstances P ”’

“ Very poor.”

“What occupation did your father follow, and where did he
live?”

“He was a weaver of poplin. He lived in Weavers’-square in
the Liberties of Dublin.”

Here a deep breath was drawn by many in court. Ladies
looked at each other in amazement, but there was no time to speak
before the next question arose.

“ And you lived with him there P”

“T lived with him there.”

“Now, on your oath, Marcella Grace, do you remember the
night of the 10th of January last P”

“I remember it.”

“About eleven o'clock at night, or nearer to midnight, what
were you doing in your home in Weavers’-square P”

Marcella Grace, 455

“ Sewing.”

“Your father having gone to bed, you were quite alone P”

* Quite alone.”

“ While you were sitting alone, sewing, you heard a knock at
the door of your house, and you admitted a man who was flying
from pursuit of the police?”

“I did so.”

“And you hid him in a secret closet i in your house according
to a previous arrangement ?”

““ There was no previous arrangement, because I never had seen
him before that moment.”

“ But you hid him in the closet ?”

“Yoo.”

“Now, on your oath was that man whom you hid on the night
of the 10th of January last the prisoner at the bar P”

Yea?

A thrill like a wind passing over tke reeds in a river went
through the court, and then complete silence reigned as before.

“ How long did he remain hidden in that closet P”

“Some three or four hours, as well as I can remember.”

“ And in the meantime the police searched the house and were
unable to find him?”

“Yea.”

“ After they were gone you liberated this man whom you had
sheltered from justice, and allowed him to go free?”

“I had sheltered him from pursuit, not from justice. And I
allowed him to go free.”

“ And afterwards you kept his secret, and continued to screen
him, although you knew that murder had been done, and that
justice was endeavouring to discover the guilty?”

“Yes,”

Again there was a sensation in the court and the counsel
waited till it subsided.

“ Miss Grace, did I understand you to say that till the moment
when you opened your door to Mr. Kilmartin on that night in
January, you had never laid eyes on him P”

“I said so.”

“You had no previous knowledge of him or his affairs P”

“None.”

“ Was not your father associated with the secret societies, and
had not you yourself some knowledge of such people? ”

“No; none. Nothing of the kind.”

456 . Marcella Grace.

“Your father was in bed when you admitted Mr. Kilmartin.
' Was he, then, or ever after, aware of your having taken such an
extraordinary step P”

“Neither then, nor ever after, till his death.”

“He had no share in your successful attempt to deceive the
police ?”

“He had no share. He died in ignorance of it.”

“Now, tell me why you took such a strange responsibility on
yourself. What induced you, a young girl in the house, late at
night, to admit a stranger because he knocked at your door P””

“ Because I saw in his face, and heard in his voice, that he was

«Then it was merely on the strength of your instinctive belief
in his goodness that you protected him and kept his secret P””

“ Merely.”

“Now, tell me, what was the second occasion on which you
met this Mr. Bryan Kilmartin.” .

“Tt was in the street, on the 11th of January.”

“Indeed. The day after the murder. What did he then say
to youP”

“He did not speak to me, nor even see me. He was reading
the bills on a newspaper-office at Cork-hill, as numbers of others
were doing. And I just saw him, and passed him by.”

“You read the notice of a reward offered, I presume. You
were a very poor girl that day, Miss Grace. Did it not enter your
mind that you might have easily earned a large sum of money?”

“I was very poor, but honest. I believe I read of the reward,
but I gave it no thought.”

“Now, what was the reason of this devoted adherence to the
man, if, as you have said, he was a stranger whom you had never
seen before P”

“TI cannot tell you more than I have already said. I only
thought that I had never seen another man who looked so good.
And I have never seen one since.”

Counsel here glanced over some papers and changed the current.
of his questioning.

“Tt was about this time that the late Mrs. O’Kelly discovered
her relationship to you and claimed you as her niece.”

«It was just the time.”

é What was the next occasion on which you met Mr. Bryan
Kilmartin P”

“ At the St. Patrick's Ball, where I went with Mrs. O'Kelly.”

Marcella Grace. 457

“On that occasion you danced with him ——”

“I do not know how to dance.”

“Well, you spent some time in his company. Did he warn you
to secrecy, or make any excuse for his conduct on the night of his
first strange introduction to you P ”

“ None.”

“ Did he make no allusion whatever to the affair?”

“He did not recognise me, and I was careful after the first
that he should not do so.”

“Now, on your oath, did he not, immediately on the death of
Mrs. O'Kelly, get you into his own keeping, and place you under
the guardianship of his mother in his home at Inisheen P”

“No.” i

“Do you mean to say that you did not travel to Inisheen one
week after Mrs. O’Kelly’s death, having no acquaintance with Mrs.
Kilmartin at the time, and Mrs. O’Kelly having left no injunctions
to account for your prompt action P”

“T do not mean to say so. Father Daly, and not Mr. Kilmar-
tin, brought me to Inisheen.”

“ Without the knowledge of Kilmartin?”

“ Entirely without his knowledge, and because Mrs. Kilmartin
was a friend of his own, that is, a friend of Father Daly’s.”

Counsel again finding that he could make no further point in
this direction, once more shifted the course of his attack.

“Miss Grace, I require you to tell me what was the first
occasion on which reference was made by Mr. Kilmartin to the
secret which you held concerning him, and to your possible evidence
on this trial.”

“On the night of his arrest at Inisheen.”

“Do I understand you to say that during the six months in
which you lived on friendly terms with, and a good deal in the
society of Mr. Kilmartin, he never alluded to the circumstances of
his first meeting with you?”

“He never did. He did not recognise me as the person he had
go met sa .

“Not in all those months P”

“ Not until I told him on the night of his arrest.”

“ And he then warned you to refuse to give evidence against
him.”

“No”

“ When, then, did he do so?”

“ He never did so.”

468 Marcella Grace.

“Yet you'denied the truth: of much that you have ‘now
admitted and expressed your willingness to swear an untrath.”

“ Yes.”

“Who induced you to alter your mind and to give evidence
against Mr. Kilmartin?”

“Mr, Kilmartin.”

This reply startled both the court and the counsel so greatly
that the latter repeated his question again in a more distinct form.

“Mr. Kilmartin himself persuaded you to give evidence against
him? Why do you suppose he did that?”

“ Because, as I have said before, he is good. He would have
nothing but the truth.”

“Are you not good enough yourself to tell the truth?”

“I am not so good as he is.”

“Now, Miss Grace, you have made some very strange confes-
sions. Perhaps you will tell me what motive you had for refusing
to tell the truth, and for entertaining the.intention of perjuring
yourself? ‘What influence had been brought to bear upon you P”

Marcella flushed vividly, and then turned deadly pale, and her
slight fingers locked themselves more tightly together. Counsel for
the defence here interposed and urged that this question ought not
to be pressed, but his opinion was overruled and the examination
went on.

“From, what point did the influence come which led you to
deny your knowledge of the facts you have now admitted? If
you are afraid or ashamed, take courage.”

“I am not afraid or ashamed. The influence you speak of
came only from the weakness of my own heart. Bryan Kilmartin
is everything in the world to me, and I have promised to be his
wife.”

The thrilling excitement which here swept through the court
went deeper than anything of the kind which had preceded it.
The answer so rudely pressed and forced from the witness was
quite unexpected. But the sensation was quickly over. Curiosity
to hear more soon restored general silence.

“So this man who knew himself to be under suspicion of
murder, who was aware that he must soon stand where he now
stands, occupied the interval in paying his addresses to a beauti-
ful and wealthy young lady. On your oath did he not try to
induce you to fly from the country with him?”

“No.”

Here it became evident that the witness's highly strung nervous

Marcella Grace. 459

tension was beginning to relax, and fearing a scene which might
attract too much sympathy towards her, the counsel for the prosecu-
tion intimated that he had nothing further to ask her at that
moment. A few questions in cross-examination from Bryan’s
counsel enabled her to make several clear points as to the unselfish-
ness of the prisoner’s dealing with her, and her belief in his entire
innocence of the charge against him. An opportunity was also
given her to relate how Mike had warned her of danger to Mr.
Kilmartin from the enmity of the Fenians. Until all was
said and nothing more was required of her, her courage never
gave way. At last she was permitted to stand down, and hid
herself in a private room of the court for a time, refusing to go
home until Bryan had been removed from the dock for that day.

In the meantime the examination of witnesses went on, the
informers were recalled and re-examined, and it was quite towards
the end of the Proceedings for that day when Mr. Gerald Sullivan,
QC., counsel for the prisoner, opened the case for the defence.

He began by sketching the career of Bryan Kilmartin from
the moment when, as a rash ardent youth, he joined the Fenians,
till now when he stood in the dock a victim to the plots of a
debased branch of Fenianism whose vengeance he had provoked
by seceding from its rank. He described the origin of the
Fenian Brotherhood. The name was borrowed from the Fenian
band who were the standing army of ancient mythical Ireland.
By their very name they were declared soldiers, and, after their
dream of a romantic warfare had been rudely broken, many of
them withdrew to peaceful aims, though still nominally Fenians.
Many more passed their years as embittered, and disappointed, but
still honourable men, in self-exile in various lands, while others,
counsel was sorry to say, had formed themselves into criminal
societies with a purpose which could not be jnstified by any law,
human or divine. It was of the latter class that the prisoner had
been so unfortunate as to provoke the anger. His only defence
against this charge was the statement that he had been lured into
the toils of enemies in order that a case might be made up
against him to his ruin. Of this Mr. Kilmartin had little proof
to give beyond his own word. Hecould bring forward witnesses
to testify to his blameless life, to the great efforts he had
made for the benefit of his people, impoverishing himself to give
them a chance of improving their condition. It was in such ways
that his money had been spent, all the money he could spare out
of the mere remnant of a fortune left him by those who se reck-

Von. xttt. No. 147.

460 Hareella Grace.

lessly squandered it tono good purpose. It was true that in politics
he was a warm Nationalist, but when would the world be brought,
to draw a fair line between the strong Nationalist in Irish politios
and the wretch whose aoul, if not his hand, was dyed with the
guilt of the assassin? Till that line was drawn, blunders terrible
and deadly would continue to be made

Mr. Sullivan then referred to the night of the 10th of January,
stating that on the same morning Bryan Kilmartin had received a
note réquesting him to visit an old tenant of his, one who had
been in his father’s employment for years, and, having left the
country to take service in Dublin, had fallen into poverty, and was
lying ill in a poor room in a certain street in the Liberties. It
was characteristic of Mr. Kilmartin that he went at the hour
appointed, an hour so late as to be calculated to arouse suspicion,
only that the circumstance was plausibly accounted for. That
letter Mr. Kilmartin had unfortunately thrown into the fire almost
as soon as read, having first made an entry in his notebook of the
name and address of thesufferer who had appealed to him, but it had
undoubtedly been sent him to lure him to the scene of the murder,
so that he might be pointed out to the police and arrested for the
crime.

“ At the appointed hour Mr. Kilmartin was approaching the
street indicated to him when he heard a sudden outcry at some
little distance ; and a voice of one who came running to meet him,
a voice he thought he recognised, said to him urgently that there
was a plot to compromise his good name and he had better get out
of the way for a few hours, as the police were almost upon him,
To this he replied that he had done nothing wrong, and asked why
he should fly. The answer was given, rapidly and pressingly.
His enemies, he was told, were stronger than he, there was no
time for explanations, but his only safety from ruin lay in a
prudent retreat. In the same moment the person who had given
the warning fled on, and Bryan Kilmartin stood face to face with
what he felt only too likely to be the truth, seeing that he had
again and again been warned that a plot was being hatched against
him. Without waiting to consider further he knocked at the
nearest door and asked to be admitted and sheltered for a few
hours, till the danger, whatever it might be—a danger which had
to himself at that moment the vaguest outlines—should blow over,
Mr. Kilmartin had since regretted this step, but it was naturally
taken under the impulse to disappoint audacious trickery, and

Marcella Grace. 461

quietly to slip out of the evil hands that were almost laid on him,
and escape without public brawl or disturbance.

“While Bryan Kilmartin remained in that closet which had
been described, and knew that the police were searching the house
for him, he regretted having sought such sanctuary, but he was
well aware that he could only make matters worse by giving him-
self up at such a moment. Now it had been sought to prove that
the inmates of the house which admitted him were friends of his,
leagued with him in crime, but after the evidence they had just
listened to, no one present could doubt that, upon this strange
occasion, the young lady whom they had heard and seen in the
witness-box, and the prisoner, met for the first time. On the
romantic circumstances of their later acquaintance and the relations
in which they now stood to one another he would not dwell. It
was too delicate a subject for public handling, but he felt sure
that the strong conviction in the mind of this innocent girl that
the man to whom she had promised to devote her life was guiltless
and good, could not but have a serious importance in the considera-
tions of the jury. Also the startling circumstance that this young
lady had been induced to give damaging evidence against Kilmar-
tin by the persuasions of Kilmartin himself, must carry weight
with it, an assurance of the integrity, not to say heroism, of the
prisoner’s character.”

After much more in the same strain from the prisoner’s counsel,
that gentleman’s eloquence was interrupted by the rising of the
court.

The next morning after the conclusion of Ris speech, the
witnesses for the defence were examined, prominent among whom
was Father Daly, who testified to the affectionate relations always
existing between the late Mr. Kilmartin and his son, also to the
fact that Bryan had not been aware of his (Father Daly’s) inten-
tion of bringing Miss O’Kelly to Inisheen till after that intention
had been carried out.

Mike, the mountain lad, Marcella’s friend, gave evidence of
the plot which, the defence asserted, had been laid by a murderous
secret society to ruin the prisoner by bringing this charge against
him. But Mike was not a clever youth, except in the matter of
vigilance prompted by his affections, and the bullying cross-
examination to which he was subjected terrified him into
some blunders. The most striking point he made was, when almost
worried out of his wits, he burst into tears and exclaimed, “I'm
tryin’ to tell you God’s truth, and ye will not let me.” “When the

462 Marcella Grace.

last of Kilmartin’s witnesses had been examined and cross-
examjned, the counsel for the prosecution again took the mattor
into his hands.

With a few thundering sentences like heavy blows he split the
case for the defence from crown to heel, tore off what he called
the false rags of sentiment in which villainy had tried to hide
itself, and placed the murderer Kilmartin before the jury in his
genuine colours. He, counsel, believed that such a thin, miserable
defence had never been sent up before in any court of justice. He
declared to his heavens that he was more disgusted at the sentimen-
tal side of the prisoner’s conduct than at its grosser brutality.
This man had sought to shelter himself behind the tenderness of
& woman, a woman, who in spite of the regard with which the
wretch had contrived to inspire her, had found herself obliged by
truth to stand up and bear witness against him. He had trumped
up a poor weak story, for which he had absolutely no support, of
having been lured to the scene of the murder by an appeal to his
charity through the wiles of a secret society—that society’ of
which he was in reality one of the most active members. Would
any man in his senses believe such a fabricationP If he had been
warned of plots against him, why had he not kept some evidence
of the factP Where was the note which had summoned him, an
innocent man, to that fatal spotP Would not any sane person have
been on his guard against invitations of the kind, or, at least, have
preserved the documents which conveyed them? Counsel did not
wish to dwell too much on the connection with this case of the
charming lady whom they had seen so painfully placed in the
witness-box, and who was fortunately young enough to outlive the
trouble into which she had been drawn by unfortunate circum-
stances, but he would ask the jury to consider whether the whole
of this episode in the case did not tell in the strongest manner
against the honesty of the prisoner's character. Counsel did not
wish to throw any doubt on the evidence of the Rev. Mr. Daly,
but it was, to say the least, a strange coincidence which brought
this girl who was in possession of Kilmartin’s secret hurriedly into
Kilmartin’s home, kept her there under the strict guardianship of
the prisoner and his mother, and resulted in the engagement of her
affections by this person with a trial for murder hanging over his
head, an engagement to marry between the man in such a
terrible position and a beautiful girl and an heiress. As for her
statement that she was induced to bear witness against him by his
own representations, well, it was not until the story had leaked out

Marcella Grace. 465

and it was praotically impossible to withhold this evidence that the
prisoner had (according to the account of his friends) put on
such an heroic attitude. The fact remained that the young
lady had several times refused to tell the truth, and had expreased
her determination to deny all knowledge of that partof theprisoner’s
movements on the night of the 10th of January which could only
be known to herself. The jury was open to the conviction that a
change in the young lady’s own feelings, a return to right judg-
ment after she had been removed from the influence of the prisoner,
rather than the reason put forward by her with a woman’s loyalty,
had procured for the prosecution that necessary link in the evidence
which perfected the case against Kilmartin, as first set up by the
confession of informers whose red-handed companion he had
been. Counsel then proceeded to demolish the evidence of Mike
of the Mountain, whom he described as a blundering, misguided
lad who had been persuaded to give testimony of a plot which had
never existed through his dog-like attachment to the accused.
Finally, he dwelt on the steady, unflinching evidence of the
informers who had every reason for telling the truth, having
bought their own lives at its cost. In conclusion, counsel wound
up with an eloquent denunciatory peroration which left a stinging
reverberation in the ears of the listeners as of the sound of blows
well-placed and well-deserved, hit home with a courage and
vigour that put mere sentiment to shame, and wrought everlasting
service to the cause of truth.

After this Kilmartin’s counsel made a final muster of their
thin forces, and rallied for a last attempt to secure the sympathy
of the jury for the prisoner. All the old points were returned to
and dwelt upon, and a strong appeal was made against the terrible
circumstantial evidence that unfortunately seemed to corroborate
the lying story of perjured informers, wretches who are in this
country too often encouraged to swear away an innocent man’s
life in order to escape with their own. For the moment a reaction
in favour of the prisoner was felt all through the court, and when
counsel for the defence sat down there was a general feeling that
the last words in the prisoner’s favour had been moving in the
extreme, and that the verdict of the jury might yet probably go
in his favour.

Then the judge got up, the thin-faced judge whose sharp
features had been sharpening noticeably all through the case, and
as he took off his spectacles, and blinked a cruel( grey. Rlanee
round the court, the hopes of those whose sympathies were with

464 Clarence Mangan’s “ Te Deum.” .

the prisoner got a sudden chill. At the first cold measured words
that fell from his lips, the little warmth that had gathered round
the defence was gradually frozen away, and his friends gave
Kilmartin up as lost. The charge was, to use a common phrase,
dead against the prisoner, and the fact that the other judge was
seen to wipe his eyes surreptitiously seemed to add the last touch
to the tragedy.

Several ladies lowered their heads and began to weep, but
Marcella sat dry-eyed and erect. We will pass over the terrible
interval between the conclusion of the charge from the bench and
the return of the jury from their deliberations. The verdict was
“ Quilty.”

For a moment Marcella’s eyes still clung to Kilmartin’s, and
then there was a dull sound unnoticed in the excitement of the
crowd, and the girl’s white face disappeared from its place in
the dimly lighted corner where she had sheltered herself.

Father Daly and old Bridget had a sorry drive home that
evening, holding a crushed, inanimate burden between them,
thankful that at least she had not heard the death-sentence pro-
nounced, but trembling for the horrors of the hideous and
inevitable to-morrow.

CLARENCE MANGAN’S TE DEUM.

|HE following characteristic hynin has been discovered in a
Magazine of forty years ago. The initials “J.C. M.” were
not needed to mark the workmanship of James Clarence Mangan.
We know of no version that gives a worthier idea of the majesty
of the original. Towards the end Mangan omitted a portion
which is now supplied by another hand in the ten last lines of the
present republication.
Thee, O great God, we praise!
Theo, mighty Lord, we bless,
‘Thee, and Thy marvellous and mysterious ways!
Thee, O oranipotent Lord,
All the rolling orbéd worlds confess!
To Thee the Archangels and high-thronéd Powers,
The Cherubim,
‘And Seraphim,
Chant aloud, with one accord,
Evermore,
Through Eternity’s resplendent hours,

Clarence Mangan's “ Te Deum.” 465

In prostration lowly,
“Holy,
Holy,
Holy is the Gop whom we adore!
Aloly is the Lord whose praise we sing.”,
Heaven and Earth, O Everlasting King,
Are luminous with thy glory!
Thee the Patriarchs of olden story,
Thee the Saints who have gone before us,
‘Thee the Apostles and the Prophet-band,
‘Magnify in one perennial chorus!

“ And the white-robed Martyr-train who stand,

Day and night, before Thy throne,
Hymn their Alleluiahs unto Thee!
Nor all those alone.
Thy Church—still militant on Earth beneath,
And yet uncrown'd with Victory’s golden wreath,—
Ever loveth to upraise
Her voice to Thee in canticles of praise,
Ever bends before Thy shrines the knee.
Glorified be ‘Thou then endlessly,
And Thy costernal Son,
‘And the Holy Spirit, Three in One!

Glorified be Thou, Son of the Living Father,
‘Who, to save Man’s rebel race from Doom,
Hadst no care to spare Thyself, but rather
Sought with joy Thy humble Handmaid’s womb!
‘Thou the Conqueror of the Tomb,
Thou the victor of Hell’s legions,
Hast to believers opened the Celestial Regions.
Seated at the right hand of the One, Great, Good,
And Eternal Potentate, thy Sire,
Thence, when earth’s allotted days expire,
Thou the Judge wilt come in glory’s plenitude.
Lord! who hast redeemed us by Thy costly blood,
Kindle in our souls Thy heavenly fire!
O! help Thy saints, Thy servants, and Thine heirs,
That nought, in life or death, avail to sever
‘Thy glory and Thy blessedness from theirs,
‘Who hope to relgn with Thee in Heaven for ever!
To Thee we chant on each returning day
‘The psalm of blessing and of praise for age,
And sanctify Thy name for evermore.
Deign, then, this day, Redeemer, deign
To guard our souls from sinful stain,
And show to us Thy mercy’s boundless store ;
Asis our hope, ao may Thy mercy be.
In Thee, Ó Lord, my hope is grounded,
‘The hope that shall not be confounded
Through all the cycles of eternity.

( 466 ) .

RELICS OF «A CERTAIN PROFESSOR.”

IAR, the best memorial of Father Joseph Farrell after the
remembrance of all his virtues and brilliant gifts, better
than any marble, inscribed with his name, which may be raised
above his grave at “The Heath” of his native Maryborough—
will always be thé delightful volume of “ Lectures by a Certain
Professor,” which contains the flower of his intellect and his
fancy. .

His friends and admirers will rejoice to learn that a volume of
his Sermons will soon be given to the public. Although the
earnest solemnity of his delivery added greatly to the effective-
ness of his discourses, we suspect that the spoken word will in this
instance be represented by the written word much lees inadequately
than generally happens with eminent speakers.

Many of Father Farrell’s most intimate friends have placed
some of his letters and literary fragments at the disposal of the
Magazine whose best fortune it was to be the first and chief
medium of communication between this gifted man and the public.
We shall use this trust very charily, for we hold that an author
has the best right to determine how much of his work ought to be
given to the public. Father Farrell wrote the following lines,
dated July 8th, 1879, not for strangers, but only for the friends of
an amiable young creature who had died three years before.

Three years of night and day, of sun and shade,
We have been travelling from thy lonely grave.
Three years! and yet it seems as thou hadst died
But yesterday : for tears are on our cheeks,

And in our hearts the wound thy parting left,
And on our home the shadow of thy lose,

Where wert thou, sister spirit, all the while?
Thou hast been sometimes near us, in those hours
‘When memory triumph'd even over death

And gave us back thy well-remembered face,
We never have forgotten, never ceased

To see thee even through the tears that blind,
To hear thee even through the low dull moan

Of pain that echoed in our desolate hearts,

Thy memory filled the chambers of our hearts,
Thou wert no stranger; though we saw thee not,
Thy presence fills the chambers of the house,

Relies of “‘.A Certain Professor.” 467

And sometimes, when sad memory sinks to sleep,
Through opening doors we turn to meet thy face
And in the silence seem to hear thy voice

And greet thy smile from out the evening gloom.

Three years we have been travelling from thy grave
‘Where low we laid thee in thy early sleep;

Three yeare—but every hour has been a step

That leads us to the threshold of the gate

Which thy dead feet have passed, which ours shall pass,
And find thee smiling welcome in that land

‘Where those who love each other part no more.

Although in his poem “ What the Sea Said” and in many
other pieces published in “Tu Irtsa MoNTHLY” and elsewhere,
Father Farrell showed a consummate skill in managing all the
subtle varieties of rhyme and rhythm, there is no doubt that he
had a partiality for that metre which ordinary verse-writers and
even very successful poets would be wise to shun. We see that
the foregoing domestic elegy runs naturally into most musical
blank verse. Even his very simple substitute for a Christmas card
eechews rhyme. Hereis his New Year greeting to a young friend
in 1880 :—

May this New Year be as an added bead
Of gold, strung on the Rosary of thy life!

In that new year a beloved niece died in her innocent girl-
hood ; and his Christmas greeting for 1880 refers to the sympathy
of this same friend :—

‘This year upon my Christmas lies a cloud

‘Which owes its silver lining to your hand.

Sharing my grief, you made my sorrow less,

For this I bless you. Grief hath kindly use:

It softens us, and nowhere kindness strikes

More deeply home than to the heart that bleeds.

As years pass by, and friends go one by one,

‘We better love the friends that still are left,

Hence never from my heart came warmer wish

For “Happy Christmas” than it comes this year.
For 1881 the New Year wish runs thus:—

May all the garner’d blessings of old years

‘Pass into this and make your New Year rich

In all the things that fill the heart with joy.
And this is his Christmas greeting for 1882 :—

From heart unchanged my Christmas greeting comes

To wish you all the blessings of the time,

All that you need and all that you desire.

468 Relics of “A Certain Professor.”

We should have been inclined to make use here of some portions
of a very interesting sketch of Father Farrell which appeared in
The Nation in its series of “ Notable Irish Priesta;” but this
sketch has just reappeared in an aocessible form, with the name of
the writer, Mr. J. J. Clancy, M.A., as an item in the new volume
of “Trish Penny Readings” now issuing in weekly parts from
The Nation office. At present we shall only give some extracts
from letters of Father Farrell, which two or three of his friends
have allowed us to examine.

The “Certain Professor” was not a letter-writer in the old
sense of the word. Post-cards and the penny post have interfered
considerably with the old ideal of “a good long letter ;” but,
besides, Father Farrell would seem to have put a check upon him-
self in letter-writing and to have shunned anything like eloquence
or sentiment. His letters are short and terse—always neat, no
sprawling or scrawling, but in the same imperturbable handwriting
and style. There was something of this in his conversation—no
bursts, but a quiet self-restrained flow of real ideas.

From the letter which follows we umit only the first of seven
pages :—

“Now about yourself. You ask me how I like your mode of life, and I
anewer—I do not like it at all. Im not myself very scrupulous—but it is no
ecruple to feel that Mass on Sunday, and (at least) occasional confession are
absolutely necessary for anyone who wishes to be something more than what I
cannot help calling the meanest of all beings, a mere nominal Catholic.
Believe me, you are unwise—and one day your unwisdum will find you out.
It is all very well to go on from day to day, but some day everyone must face
the future. You will have to face it. Am I correct in inferring that the French
songs of which you speak—and which are ironically said to have been learned
‘chez les Jésuitea’—are not quite such as should be quoted for the entertain~
ment of ladiesP I hope I am not correct in so inferring, for if it were so, I
should be positively ashamed to think that you allowed anyone so to insult you.
This is not merely a matter of religion. To anyone of common spirit, I should
say—better beg your bread or die by the roadside than live subjected to such
indignity. Here you have plain speaking, but I know no other way to speak,
and I speak ao, because I have the warmest interest in your welfare. It is
not because I happen to be a priest that I say to you there is no happiness
without religion; it is because it is a lesson that all my experience has brought
home to me. It is true of every one, but it has special truth for anyone who
has ever been religious. Of course you can, if you will, forget your past— you
can go the way of the world around you—you can neglect confession—grow
lees scrupulous—and persuade yourself that you are happier on that account.
But such happiness is very delusive. It will not last. Is it not common sense
to acknowledge that God is our Master, that His eye is never off us, and that
His hand can always reach us—however we try to hide ourselves 1. It seems

Relics of “A Certain Professor.” 469

sometimes (so unutterably foolish is the human heart) a fine thing to forget Him,
and a noble thing to despise his Church and its ordinances ; but it is neither fine
nor noble—it is abeurd, and it is mean, and it is fatal. I hope you do not need
all this though I write it. I hope and I think that you are not so careless
about these things as you pretend tobe. Remember, at any rate, what good
you ean do for yourself and for others if you only stand up for God and
His Church amongat people who forget both. If you do, you will be happier
even in this world, and you will have nothing to regret and nothing to repair.
All this may read like a scolding, but it is meant simply to do you good—and
the saying of it seems to mo the truest act of friendship I could perform.
At any rate forgive me, and believe me always
“Yours affectionately,
“Josrpu FARRELL.”

The letter we give next seems to be connected with the pre-
ceding ; but we shall not strive to give our extracts consecutively,
but set them down one after another, only warning the reader that
the letters are addressed to two, or three, or four different corre-
spondents and that observations may thus seem to regard persons
and subjects that they have no connection with in reality.

“I was more than usually pleased with your last letter, and feel very glad
that my letters give you any consolation or do you any good. I only wish I
could do a great deal more for you. But youcan do any amount of good for
yourself if you only wish. It amuses me somewhat to find that just now your
Grievance is that you cannot read Dumas. Do you not think that considering
the many heavy trials that people have to bear in this world, your present cross
is a light one enough? Surely there is a sufficiently wide field of French and
English literature in which you can lawfully amuse yourself without longing
for the fruit of one forbidden tree. About the excommunication, I may tell
you that it rests with the bishop of each diocese to attach excommunication or
other penalties to particular sins, and all persons must abide by the law of the
Giocese in which they live. A bishop in one place will, owing to the frequency
of a particular sin, or to other causes, think it necessary to impose a penalty,
whereas a bishop in another place may see no such necessity. ‘This will explain
to you what seems at first sight strange, that confessors differ in different places.
Of course you must take the law from the confessor to whom you go. I can
readily imagine how uneasy your sister is about you. Do you know I often
think you were intended and called to be very good—and you will never be happy
until you obey the call. Everything comes to an end but that.”

Writing on the 28th December, 1879, Father Farrell begins :—

“I hope this will be in time to wish you a very happy New Year. I do so
most heartily, You will ask perhaps, as I often have been tempted to ask—ia
there such a thing as happiness? But I believe really good people are happy ;
and I think happiness in the beet sense is very much in our own power to
command,

“© spent perhaps the loneliest Christmas I ever spent. I did not go any-
where, and my only companions were thoughts of the past. And yet I cannot

470 Relice of “ A Cortain Professor.”

say my Christmas was unhappy. I find myself very good company for myself,
‘and can entertain myself to an unlimited extent... I think after this year I
shall begin to grow old; would I could grow wise and good. Keep me in your
memory and in your prayers.”

In one of these letters Father Farrell describes a change of
lodging in which a spacious chamber fell to his lot.

“So I have room for any amount of thoughts. I love space and light, and
I have plenty of both. I do not know how I guessed you were a little home-
sick. It does not need to have a home to feel that way. I have no home and
I feel it often. I scarcely think I will ever have a home except such as I make
for myself in my own room. Really that is not eo bad when the door is shut
and all my books about me. They are real friends.”

One of the Christmas cards which we ventured to copy at the
beginning of this article alluded to a domestic sorrow that is thus
referred to in another of these letters.

“T have been in great trouble. My little niece, only twelve years old, died
of typhoid fever after only a few days’ illness, She was a darling child, almost
the only comfort of her mother, and mixed up to a far greater extent than Ihad
imagined with any pictures I had ever made of the future. It has been a great
blow to me. Then just after, Father D my oldest and dearest friend
in the world, died suddenly of disease of the heart. He had been at my niece's
office on a Thursday, and on the following Saturday morning was found dead in
his bed. So you see how sorrow has come upon me. As we live on, we learn
how those troubles that we utter as mere phrases such as— death is certain, life
is short '—are in truth the dread realities of the world in which we live. I
know you will pray for those who are gone and for those who remain behind.”

After looking through a large bundle of Father Farrell’s letters,
and putting them into a large envelope to return safely to their
owners, after deciding that they did not serve for our present
purpose, we took them up again with the idea of copying from
some of them a phrase or two, here and there. The following
gleanings are the result :—

After all, where it is a real virtue and not a mere mood of an unamiable
nature, detachment from all creatures is a great blessing. I have not attained
to it, I know. The “cords of Adam" draw me, and often the pull and the
wrench are painful.

My great comfort in distressing circumstances is that ‘all things are
passing.’ [One of many allusions to St, Theresa's famous book-mark.]

I am in no hurry, for I like this quiet place dearly. I have always felt
that when one gete a parish one begins todie. But have we not begun to die
from the very first day? [Written on the 28th of February, 1885, and he
died March 24th].

How many things you have to be grateful to God for. I am sure that you
are grateful, and that you will be specially grateful—yee, grateful—fot the great

Relics of “A Certain Professor.” 471

cross He has sent you. After all, from what we know of Him, that is his
greatest favour. Life here ia very quiet—just like our canal that moves barely
enough to keep it from stagnating. Very unlike the great sea—but safer.

Whatever you do, don't worry yourself, Nothing pays so badly. I always
find almost all the wisdom I ueed in St. Theresa’s book-mark. [t is a volume in
itself. By the way I am not ao “horribly wise” as you imagine. I keenly
feel in myself countless possibilities of foolishness—even probabilities, nay, even
downright actualities,

‘This place is as quiet as ever. It isa real Sleepy Hollow. The river flows
gently, and we, as gently, float down the stream of time—into what great sea P
Or are we bringing any cargo worth carrying ?

I hope poor — is ull right by thie, To me there is something very heart-
fending in the eufferinga of little children, who have not even the comfort (and
‘what a comfort it ia to grown people !) of being able to dilate upon the symptoms
of their malady. [Two months later poor — was indeed all right. Some
letters of consolation which will be quoted refer to her death.]

How I envy you your hot weather! I love the sunshine and the summer,
and in the winter I am a fire-worshipper.

I love to sve the same things every day. How differently people are made!
‘There are some whose happiness ia variety. I would erect an altar to the dear
goddess Monotony.

I am reading away as usual everything [can lay hold of. The most note-
worthy books I have since met with are some of Julian Hawthorue's, who
certainly inherits no amall share of his father’s genius,

T shall eagerly look forward to the time-it will not be long coming, no time
ever is—when I shall know from your own lips of all you saw and all you felt in
your travels abroad. I hope you keep a diary. Itisalways worth while. The
finest things often escape the memory ; and even if one remembers, it is interest-
ing to compare the thing as remembered with the record of the thing as seen,
When I travelled, I kepta sort of a diary, but only a sort of one. I did not
in fact know how, at that time. I often think I remained in many thingsa
boy for an unusually long time—if not indeed up to thie present. However, I
often now regret—too late as one usually regrete—that I have ao little to remind
me of the one, probably it will be the only, great spell of travel I ever had.

I feel occasional twinges—so trifling as to be little more thau a presentiment
—of rheumatism. 1 suppose that it is a presentiment and that [may quietly face
the fact that, having climbed to the top of the hill, I am beginning to go down
that other side* where, amongst other evils, rheumatiem is a matter of course,

I am ashamed of all the broken ‘resolutions it has taken to produce this
letter. Do not think, however, that I enjoy my indolence. My conscience is
too sensitive, and the unwritten letter haunts me like a ghost.

A man should be very slow to defend himself in print. “To keep never
minding” is very good policy ia moat cases.

‘When Lam away from home, I cannot rid myself of the notion that in my
absence something will take an opportunity of happening; and this something
generally promises to be unpleasant.

© This was February, 1883. ‘<The other side” was only to occupy two years,
‘That will bo the way with so many of us. Prope eet Dominus.

472 Relica of “A Certain Professor.”

A letter dated ‘“Monasterevan, February 5th, 1880,” begins
thus :—

“I think the only thing in which I am inclined to procrastinate isin writing
letters, Every other thing I have to do Ido at once. For the last ten days
there was no day on which I did not intend to write to you—but better late
than never, or even than later. So Iam writing now. I am glad you spent
so plensant a Christmas. You have made very warm friends—and, whoever has
the capacity of doing that may count on having many happy days even in this
cold world, I think you are working on to eound conclusions about life. ¥
quite agree with you when you say there is no happiness except in being very
good. As to the happiness to be found. in being very bad, I believe it is all &
delusion—and even were the delusion to be so strong as to deceive us and satisfy
us, it certainly would not last long enough to be of any value. The end should
come some day, and after that.”

Recovering from a severe illness, Father Farrell wrote to
another kind friend. ‘“ How good it was of you, and how charac-
teristic to make my illness one of your troubles! A curate has
soarcely a right to be ill. One cannot help thinking that illness
on his part is looked on by the higher authorities as a piece of
downright perversity.”

I will here venture to give in full some letters of consolation,
written by Father Farrell. The first was written after the death
of Dr. Russell, President of Maynooth, on the 26th of February,
1880.

“* MONASTEREVAN,
. “ March 4,
“My pear FATHER Rosset,

“Now that I may suppose you to be in some degree settled down after
the melancholy duties of the past week, I am anxious to express to you in
writing what 1 know you would give me credit for feeling, even if I did not
write—my sincere condolence with you for the great Joes you have sustained.

“Your loss is the greater inasmuch as it is sustained not by you alone or your
friends, but by the whole Irish Ohurch—indeed I might enlarge the term, and
say the whole English-speaking Church,

“To we, personally, Dr. Russell’s death, in a certain sense, opens a new epoch
and closes an old one. He had just been made President when I first entered
Maynooth—so that through all the happy days of studentahip, and through all.
the time of my youth, he was in my mind ‘ the President.”

‘ Another will come now, but no other will ever take that place in my mind.
‘At the point where I mias him, I shall’ always feel that I began to go down in
the vale of years.

“1 thought the notices in the newspapers were, even for notices of
the sort, unworthy of the occasion, I am sure you will, in “Tax Inis
MonTHLy” or elsewhere, give a more detailed account of his life and labours.
‘When doing so, do not overlook the magnificent tribute paid to him by Gladstone
(think in his speech introducing the University Bill, but am not sure)—in

I Love the Oid Songs. 473

which he declares that he considered the culture of Dr. Russell an ample
guarantee for the culture of the Irish priesthood educated under his care—but
doubtless you will know the passage.

“T fear we will be a long time before we have againa man so eminently
fitted to raise in the mind of foreigners so high an opinion of Irish culture. May
God give him the reward of all his labours! I hope you are quite well after
this trying time.

“Yours affectionately,
“Josgpg FARRELL.”

(To be continued.)

I LOVE THE OLD SONGS.
BY RICHARD E. WHITR.

LOVE the old songs most af all,
‘None with them can compare,
They always to my mind recall
The happy times that were ;
The summer time again they bring
"Mid winter snows and frost.
Of all the songs sweet voices sing
Tove the old songs most,

In dim lit room I’ve sat by night,
While in the street would play

Some minstrel songs that brought delight
In boyhood’s happy day;

And back to mind came vanished years,
And friends, a welcome host ;

Ab, those old songs are fsught with tears!
Love the old songs most.

A zest to life their spirit gives,
Love ever in them dwells,

As day or night the starlight lives
‘Deep down in ancient wells.

A talisman to them belongs,
And joysand hopes long lost

Are caught to life by those old songe—
T love the old songs most.

San Francisco, California,

€694)

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.

BY JOHN FALLON.
Parr IX.—Totzpo.

A Run of less than three hours by rail brings you from Madrid
to Toledo. People are wont to pronounce it a dreary bit of travel-
ling, “ through the desert-like plain of Castille,” with “ Aranjuez
standing out mid-wey like an oasis,” etc., etc. To me, starting
in the evening twilight, the scene was like a sea turned to red in
the sunset afterglow ; then darkness supervened long before I
reached the short journey’s end—so that I leave to your ima-
gination to fill up the blanks.

There is a legend that Toledo was founded by: a colony of Jews,
flying from their desolated land at the time of the Babylonian
captivity. The scarped rocks on which the royal city stands might
have recalled to their minds the dear remembrance of Mount Sion,
which they were neveragain to see. But I suspect the legend isa
mere myth, obscuring an origin of still older date: for Spain seems
to have been sought for settlement by mankind before the dawn
of history.

By whomsoever founded, it was annexed by the Romans,
nearly two centuries before the Christian era. In course of time,
Julius Cesar made it a “ place of arms;” Augustus promoted it
to the dignity of a “centre of justice”—and, in further course of
time, the Visigoths selected it as their capital, when their sway
extended from the wide-spreading provinces of Narbonic Gaul, to
the utmost ends of the Spanish peninsula.

In this capital, during the sixth and seventh centuries, were
held those frequent councils to which the bishops of the Visigoth
Church repaired from the remotest corners of this vast realm, to
deliberate in primitive parliament with the lords temporal, and
make laws for the common weal.

To return to legendary lore, was it not on some one of those
heights, which encircle the city like a ring, that stood the en-
chanted tower, to which each Gothic monarch wisely added a lock
without asking the reason why, till the rash Don Roderick madly
forced them all ; and thus let loose the flood of evil fortune that so
soon deluged his kingdom P... And was it not from the alcazar,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 475

that still crests the lofty city, that he sallied, on hearing of his
kinsman’s defeat and death at Calpé, to meet his own crushing
doom on the banks of the Guadaleté, near Herez P

Under the Moorish domination, the fortunes of the city were
eclipsed by those of Cordova; but, when the caliphate declined,
and the city was delivered from the Moors, its first Alcaldé was
no less a man than the Cid himself. From that hour, as if
by natural ascendency, Toledo sprang to the dignity of capital
of New Castille, and, for over four centuries, retained the premier
rank, till superseded by Madrid. Not even then was its ecclesi-
astical supremacy in the least affected, and never have its
Archbishops ceased to hold primacy over the whole hierarchy
of Spain. So that you tread here on most historic and hallowed soil.

But it must be admitted, viewing things in the fierce light of
the nineteenth century, so much antique grandeur is almost
suggestive of present decay, according to the at once melancholy
and hopeful law of earthly vicissitudes, to which states, cities, and
men all seem equally amenable. Time goes on inexorably, and
whosoever or whatsoever does not advance, falls behind in the race.
To this law Toledo is no exception; this I felt very soon last
night, on being deposited at the old-fashioned “ Fonda de Lino,”
which is the “grand hotel” of the city. The transition was
immediately from the nineteenth century, as represented by
Madrid, back to the middle ages, or some period more remote.
Not one single ray of modern progress seems to have dawned on
this picturesque caravanserai of other days. When I asked for
iced lemonade, a thing of prime necessity in Spain at this season,
and almost universal, I was served with a mixture that was posi-
tively tepid. When I asked for a bedroom, the apartment I was
led to was a coved attic, with the temperature of an oven. When,
with tall words, I remonetrated, I was shown to a whole suite of
rooms, “for the sefior to suit himself as he pleased,” but even
in them the warmth was that of a Turkish bath, the beds were
all of down, and mosquitoes were furiously buzzing all about !

Such discomforts, undeniably cruel as they are, have just one
extenuating circumstance: they are conducive to early rising.
Accordingly, five o’clock this morning saw me out and exploring,
accompanied by the hotel-guide, whose company is a necessity
in Toledo, so intricate are the ways.

Probably contrary to what all would expect, the famous cathe-
dral is on adownward slope. Descending towards it, I was happy
to pass through the vegetable market. The peasantry from the

36

Vou. xu, No. 147.

476 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

country round, calmly standing or sitting behind their deliciously
fresh-looking produce, were transacting business in subdued tones,
with the dignified air of grandees. And I noticed, in one corner
of the market-equare, a stately mansion of other days, with pon-
derous porch of sculptured stone, resting on Doric columns of
marble. This was ere now the “ Posada de la Sancta Hermandad”
—in plain English, the head police-barrack of Toledo. (The
police were euphemistically called “the holy brotherhood.”)
Stepping into its lofty hall, I found it still retaining a noble stair-
case and panelled ceiling of carved oak and pine, perfeotly black
with age: in this venerable hall the mules of the market people
were stabled side by side! This, in its small way, gives an idea
how things have retrograded in Toledo.

A little further on is another small square, and in its centre a
fountain ; at this fountain women of various ages were drawing
water in pitchers. Most of them had light auburn hair, and they
wore it braided into small hemispheres over the temples and at the
back of the head; the coiffure of each was furthermore neatly
fastened up with a silver arrow. There is, in the picture gallery
of Madrid, a charming Murillo, representing Rebecca and her
companions drawing water at the evening well, with pitchers too,
at the moment when the aged steward of Abraham comes upon
them unawares, having left his camels kneeling in the background.
Here are the living realisation of the maidens of Nahor, such as
Murillo painted them, and the costume they affect of violet and
saffron is picturesque enough for a fancy ball.

Further descending, by tortuous and narrow lanes, you soon
reach the cathedral. Externally it looks disappointing, mainly
because it was “restored” without mercy in the days of the
renaissance ; but enter, and you are in one of the grandest cathedrals
of Europe, and the world. It ranks with Bourges, Chartres, Notre
Dame of Paris, Amiens . . . I am deliberately comparing it with
those French examples, because, although reared in the very heart
of Spain, it is French in style and detail, and belongs to that
glorious thirteenth century when French Gothic was at its zenith.
The same king, St. Ferdinand, laid the first stone of Burgos
cathedral in 1221, and of this, its younger and grander sister, in
1225; of what other child of Adam could as much be said? The
marriage ties between the French dynasty and his, gave him ample
command of the best French architects and workmen, and the
result is here before you, perfect as when finished six centuries ago.

* In remembrance of a mounted brotherhood established in the palmy days
of Leabella to keep the highways clear of brigands,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 47

Like most cathedrals of the first class, it has double aisles on
each side of the nave. Here the inner are twice as high as the
outer, and the nave is half as high again as the inner. This gives
grand opportunities for clerestories ; and, true to the occasion, the
walls are all lightsome with traceried windows filled with gorgeous
stained glass. As in the French cathedrals also, you find here
superb rose-windows in the transepts and west end, and a magnifi-
cent “chevét,” or eastern apse, which glows like a many-coloured
lantern in a way impossible to describe.

Of course this cathedral cannot compare, in point of dimensions,
with that of Seville, where all the proportions are colossal and
gigantic. There the altitude from floor to ceiling is a hundred
and fifty feet, as compared with a hundred feet here; the clear
span of the nave above the plinths is forty-three feet, as compared.
with thirty-eight feet six inches in this cathedral. Still, even with
these lesser figures, it ranks with the grandest Gothics of Europe;
and, the choir-screen being of moderate height, instead of tower-
ing to the vaults as at Seville, the whole interior has what Seville so
sadly lacks, a magnificent stretch of perspective on whichsoever
side you look, from end to end of the vast building.

What strikes one, in walking round the choir and chapels, is
the antiquity of everything; centuries are the units here. The
choir-stalls, magnificently carved, date from the days of the Catho-
lic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, and are a speaking record
of their victories and conquests. The choir-books, large as men,
quite too ponderous for any single man to raise, are written on
vellum, with quaintest musical notation of black and red square
notes, in staves, I think, of three or four lines: twice to-day I
heard hymns chanted from them ; I can vouch the music is solemn
and melodious to a degree, but differs widely from French Grego-
rian; it sounds more like what one would expect the genuine music
of the early Church to be ; it is like a wailing appeal to heaven for
mercy and for

Round the grand altar of the “capilla mayor,” kings of the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries lie buried; and, amidst them,
Archbishop Mendoza, grand cardinal of Spain, the friend and
adviser of Isabella and Ferdinand, himself a “‘tertius rex,” as
mighty and wealthy as they. A great noble by birth, it was he
recommended Isabella not to name one of his rank to succeed him,
because the post was “almost too high for a subject, and the
revenues too princely.”

In the central chapel of the eastern apse is preserved the tradi-

478 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

tional stone, on which the Blessed Virgin stood, when investing
her champion, Saint Hildefonso, with the chasuble from heaven, in
the early part of the seventh century.

The adjoining chapel on the north side is that of the Knights
of St. James. Its walls are richly emblazoned with the scallop
shells and armorial bearings of the order. In the centre rises
the tomb of Alvaro de Luna, their grand master in his day, who
built the chapel when at the height of his power, more than four
centuries ago. Read his ead story in Prescott, and you will realise
how fickle is the favour of kings. The Portuguese princess, whom
he got his sovereign to marry, soon became madly jealous of his
ascendency over that weak sovereign’s intellect, and prevailed on
the old imbecile to have him brought to speedy trial and execution,
like a common felon. If, as I suppose, his remains lie here, hidden
amidst all this grandeur, the head and the body form two very
separate parts, thanks to the Portuguese bride whom he imported.
To think that such a lady was the stepmother of the gentle
Isabella! to think that such a king was the father of “the queen
of earthly queens,” as Shakespeare called her! But such were
the times! ...

Next the chapel of St. James is that “de los reyes nuevos,”
burial-place of kings and queens of the fourteenth century, who
are “ new” as compared with those entombed round the grand altar.

A side chapels contains, I believe, one of those mysterious
black statues of the Blessed Virgin which date back to the
very earliest days of Christianity. In fact, according to local
tradition, there was a church erected here in the first century of
the Christian era. It was knocked down during the reign of
Decius, rebuilt during that of Constantine, and rebuilt again by
the Visigoth King Recaredo, a.p. 587: of this latter fact and date
there is authentic record on a slab foand in the sixteenth century
and still preserved. The Moors converted the Visigoth church into
a mosque, and of course rebuilt it again. When in turn the
Christians recaptured the city, this mosque was guaranteed to the
Moors by King Alphonso VI., but the spirit of his troops was
unable to brook such concession. In the king’s absence, the mosque
was converted into a cathedral, and tradition has it that the queen
connived at this violation of her lord’s plighted word. When the
king returned, furious and full of revenge, the prudent Moors were
the first to ask his forgiveness, and recognitién of accomplished
focts, which was readily granted: the converted mosque remained
a cathedral, and the Moor who acted as peacemaker on that critical

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 479

occasion lies buried with the older kings and Mendoza, within the
sanctuary: he is known here as “the good Alfaqui.” But even
when the building was again pulled down and reconstructed, in the
days of St. Ferdinand, fragments of the Saracenic work of the
Moors were left untouched. They are plainly visible in a small
chapel of the south aisle, dedicated to St. Eugene : and they retain
Cufic inscriptions, perhaps words from the Koran, spared as not
clashing with the Christian creed.

Of all the minor chapels, that which I found most interesting was
the Moozarabic one, to the right as you enter from the west end.
Here Mass is celebrated every morning at seven o'clock, according
to the old Vizigoth ritual, revised by Cardinal Ximenes—and this,
in memory of the almost Irish fidelity of the people to the true
faith, during the long night of Moorish rule. When the hour of
deliverance sounded, the tradition is that Queen Constanza and
the new archbishop were for abolishing this ritual altogether : the
Toledans were naturally for retaining it untouched. King Alphonso
wisely declined to decide, but referred the matter to the ordeal of
battle. A knight was chosen on either side ; a Toledan, for Toledo;
a stout Burgundian, to oppose him; but, at the very first round
the Burgundian fell transfixed . . . This ordeal was not considered
satisfactory by the queen’s party, and the ordeal of fire was next
resorted to. A pile of faggots was gathered ; a Mozarébic missal
was placed on it, and also a Roman ; then the pile was set ablaze.
The Roman missal jumped out of the flames, and thus escaped
uninjured; the Mozar4bic remained amidst them till the pile was
reduced to ashes, and then was found unburnt and not even singed.
What, think you, was the conclusion of the umpires? .. . It was,
that the missal which flew out of the flames should be aided in its
free flight everywhere, for evermore: and that the missal which
remained on the burning pile unburnt, should be tolerated within
circumscribed limits, but not allowed to spread further !*

Remember, this is merely a legend of things enacted just eight
centuries ago, but it substantially embodies what historically took
place, as to this time-honoured ritual. More than four centuries
afterwards, and shortly before his own death, Cardinal Kimenes
revised it, and it was my good fortune to see it this morning, such
as it came from his reforming and conservative hands.

Naturally, after this long preamble, you will ask what is it
like? ...It is scarcely for me, all unworthy, to describe it, but a
few words may perhaps give a faint idea:

* On the spot you can buy, and I have bought, an illustrated account of the
ritual, giving both these scenes with quaint accuracy.

480 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

I saw a number of ecclesiastics entering the chapel in Indian
file, in black sontane and white surplice; I followed. They took
their places in stalls, and for about fifteen minutes recited psalms
in Latin, in rapid chanting monotone, always ending with “Amen.”
One stood in the centre at a reading desk, and gave out the leading
words of each psalm.

This over, one of the ecclesiastics came forward, attended by
two acolytes, put on vestments of the early English type, and com-
menced Mass. I can vouch that most of it was in Latin, but with
rites very much resembling those of the Greek Church, the choir
all the while responding “ Amen” at frequent intervals, and
occasionally other words which I could not catch.

1 need scarcely say that the Epistle was read from the Epistle
side of the altar, and the Gospel from the Gospel aide. After the
Gospel, an attendant ecclesiastic placed a second missal on the
Epistle side, and with a long silver stiletto pointed to each passage
and page that was to be read. This attendant also handed to the
celebrant priest a superb large reliquary cross of silver and gold,
which was reverently kissed, and then, I think, handed round to
all the members of the choir.

It struck me that a great many of the prayers ended with
Greek words, but I could not catch them with sufficient clearness
to be positive. Were I to attempt further detail, I feel certain
I should blunder profanely and unpardonably. I will only add
that, on the whole, the discrepancies struck me far less than the
marked resemblances between this old ritual and the Roman of
the present day. Whether it owes its origin to the days of Leander
and Isidore, or to times still closer to the apostolic age, it stands
forth as a magnificent proof, not only of the fidelity of the Spanish
people during their long night of trial, but also of the abiding and
marvellous unity of the Christian worship through time and place.

As if in gratitude to Cardinal Ximenes for revising and thus
preserving the Movzarabio ritual, there is a fresco on the side wall
of the Mozarabio chapel, opposite the entrance, representing his
extraordinary capture of Oran. To think that a crusading
expedition to Africa, involving a fleet and an army of horse and
foot, should have been equipped and led by a Cardinal Archbishop,

. primate of all the Spains, in the seventieth year of his age, and
when weighed down with infirmities! Never did fiction devise a
more romantic episode, or one more signally triumphant. In this
fresco a flock of ravens is flying from the fortress battlements
while the Moorish garrison is driven in headlong rout froin the

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 481

ramparts below. The ravens, I fanoy, are meant to symbolise the
powers of Satan, thus showing that here, as elsewhere, much
injustice was done to the sable and crafty birds of Odin.

Talking of frescoes, in the winter chapter room there is a re-
markable one of the last judgment, older than Michael Angelo’s
in the Sistine. Here no monster of human form, with horns and
trident, drives the condemned to the abyss; but a wild boar, with
his tranks, catches them by their long hair, which they are curi-
ously all supposed to have, and thus ingeniously drags them away !
Michael Angelo was not quite original in introducing a Oardinal
amongst the reprobate ; for here is a Cardinal aleo—no less a one
than Ximenes himself—by no means on the safe side of the judg-
ment seat; and the curious thing is, that it was at his own personal
request that the artist placed him so. His fateis left very doubt-
ful, but still there is hope, and no boar dares place profane tooth
near his ascetic head !

What singular ideas filled the mind of this singular man, who
had the spirit and the means to found a university and equip
a crusade, while still observing amidst all his greatness the
strictest rules of a mendicant friar, ever harder on himself than on
his foes.

To conclude about this cathedral; if you approach it by the
west end, you will descend several steps to enter, again showing
the antiquity of ground-work. If, at such a moment, there streams
down on you a flood of tinted eunlight from the traceried windows
of nave and aisles—and, better still, if it be'youx fortune to hear
those strange beseeching notes that sound like a prayer, or those
loud triumphant ones that reverberate like a shout of triumph—
then, and perhaps then only, will you best realise the grandeur
that my poor words would in vain try to convey.

* * . * .

A ramble round the atreeta of an old city is generally a great
pleasure; in Toledo it is specially so, only tempered with much
fatigue. I have mentioned that the streets here are steep, besides
being tortuous and narrow. You climb them up, slowly and labo-
riously ; you trot them down, perhaps faster that you would wish,
restraining yourself with difficulty from going headlong. At places
the ascent or descent is accomplished by flights of stone stairs; at
others, you have to look up, to see the basement story of the house
just opposite you, or you peer over its roof and almost down its
chimneys. If you were a ball, and elastic, you would roll and re-
bound from terrace to terrace, and pop over the parapets down into

483 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain,

the Tagus, majestic river, that almost encircles the town in the
deep valley beneath.

At each turn some fresh view opens out. Toledo is said to be
built on seven hills, like Rome, and so many other towns. But, to
the bewildered wanderer of a day, there is practically but one
sugar-loaf mountain, covered with buildings of every date, round
which the river rushes with creamy colour and rapid flow. And
beyond the river is a girdle of highland ; not green, as your fancy
would paint it; not in the least wooded, as probably you would wish
it tobe; but all, or nearly all, of dove-coloured granite, presenting
the strangest contortionsof upheaval thatimagination could conceive.

Of course, as the eye gets accustomed to this strange surrounding,
tiny patches of verdure are seen, where nature has asserted her
sway in forming mould, and man has followed, turning that mould
into green life. Slopes are also detected on which corn was grown
during the earlier half of the year; but that corn in now harvested
and gone; and the stubbles tone with the prevailing colour of the
rock. The few spots of emerald are exceptions to prove the general
rule: green is the one colour which a painter of this strangest
of landscapes might safely leave behind him.

Compared with Seville, the houses of Toledo have a stately and
ponderous, but gloomy air. Instead of the graceful, magnificently
wronght lace-work of iron that fences, ‘without ever screening,
the patios there, Toledo affects massive doors of oak, mounted on
massive hinges, with massive bolts, bars and bosses, all tastefully
designed and chiselled, and wonderfully preserved, but looking as
if meant to resist a siege. The patios themselves have a sombre
look; their columns, unlike the light marble shafts of Seville, are
of dull grey, chiselled in heavy Doric style, and strong enough
to support a railway bridge. The traditions of Saracenic lightness
and grace have plainly been discarded for fashions more solid, and.
perhaps more ancient. I cannot help thinking that the bosses on
the doors are a survival of a Visigoth taste, handed down from
generation to generation ; they resemble, more than anything else,
the bosses on the sculptured stone crosses of old Ireland.

Not that I would have you to understand that there are no
Moorish houses in Toledo. Here and there, as I wandered, the
guide brought me into courtyards apparently deserted, where, under
lime-wash and cobwebs, you could plainly discern the strangely
beautiful stucco of Moorish days; in each centre still stood the
small fountains ; from some the water still trickled.*

* Taleo saw some interiors which were as Moorish as the Alhambra, and
almost as well preserved.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain, 483

It would be natural, and pardonable, but a mistake, to assume

that those Moorish houses date from the period of the Moorish domi-

_ nation, which ceased exactly eight centuries ago. As the Christians
remained under the Moors, and were called “ Moozarabs,” so the
Moors remained under the Christians, and were called “ Moode-
hars,” till they were finally banished in the seventeenth century.
For works of taste and works of skill they were always sought after,
both in town and country ; and many a chapel, many asynagogue,
is clearly and plainly the work of their hands.

Sancta Maria la Blanca, for instance, was built for a synagogue,
and taken from the Jews in the early part of the fifteenth century,
during one of those outbursts of hatred against the Jewish race
which every European country seems to have indulged in from
time to time. It is twelfth century work, but as Moorish in style
as the Mosque of Cordova; in style, remember, though not in
material, for the soil that underlies its encaustic tiles was brought
here from Mount Sion, and the woodwork in its panelled ceilings
is carved from the cedars of Lebanon !

“Nuestra Sénora del Transito” is another synagogue, con-
verted to Christian worship when the Jews were finally banished,
a few months after the fall of Granada. It dates from the four-
teenth century, which, for Toledo, is quite modern; but is as
Moorish in architecture and decoration as Sancta Maria la Blanca.
Queen Isabella handed it over to the Knights of Calatrava, and the
“transito” was construed to mean the passing away from this life
of any member of the order, when the “ passing-bell ” was tolled ;
but, it had also a loftier significance, for it meant the Assumption
of the Blessed Virgin, to whom the church was dedicated.

One word about the Jews of Toledo. That they enjoyed
special, though by no means absolute, immunity from persecution,
and from those wild outbursts of fanaticism which disgraced every
country in Europe, is historically undeniable. Their claim was,
that they were the lineal descendants of that ancient colony which
came, (or did not come), at the time of the Babylonian captivity!
Another plea was, that when the people of Jerusalem madly elected
between our Lord and Barabbas, their forefathers stood aloof asa
dissenting minority !

As for the Spanish Jews in general, they were evermore, and
naturally, a source of weakness to the governments that maltreated
them. They welcomed the Moors, in the days of the Visigoths ;
they welcomed the Christians, after a long experience of Moorish
rule; and they would have welcomed any further invasion, had

484 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

not their banishment been sternly decreed and carried out, Such
is the unwisdom of tolerating, yet persecuting and alienating, a
race or a people; a.folly which the old Romans never committed,
and hence their power.

Quite the smallest church I have ever seen is here at Toledo: it
is called ‘San Cristo de la Luz.” It also is Moorish work, but,
unlike the others I have named, it is of the real Moorish days; on
its walls Alphonso VI. suspended his shield, on that bright morning
when he entered the city as a deliverer ; it is all aisles, all arches,
and all vaults, resting on four shafts in the most indescribable man-
ner; and is perhaps as lofty, but certainly not as large, as the
Campanile of Trinity College.

Overlooking a steep precipice is an interesting Gothic church,
built in the latter half of the fifteenth century, when Gothio
architecture was in its decline. It was erected by Ferdinand and
Ieabella in thanksgiving for their victory at Toro. That victory,
equally due to the marvellous pluck and organisation of Isabella,and
the chivalrous dash of her young husband, nipped in the bud what
looked like a formidable war of succession, and was the bright
opening of their joint and brilliant reign. Before the wars of the
first French empire this church was, I believe, magnificently
decorated, and the resort of rank and fashion. But “ Messieurs
les Francais ont passé par ici,” and have left it a pillaged and
desecrated shell. Still, in its ruins, it is interesting for the
memories it enshrines. Furthermore, if you walk round it, you
will observe, hanging in festoons high up on the walls, long and
ponderous chains of iron: to those chains Christian captives were
fastened, in the prison-yards of Granáda and Malaga, till rescued
by the conquering arms of the ‘Catholic monarchs.” Four
centuries old at least, those chains seem as yet untouched by rust,
and good for four centuries more: such is the marvellous climate.

On my way back to the hotel, I spent nearly an hour in the
workshop of one Mariano Alvaréz, to see iron in the process of
being “ chiselled, encrusted, and damascened,” turned by artistic
hands from a shapeless mass into ornaments fit for a lady’s wrist,
or the sword-handle of a king: this is one of the charming
industries which have been cultivated in Spain from time imme-
morial.*

As I toiled up the narrow lanes, in a temperature quite too
high for pleasure, I came to realise a further motive why Toledo

* The heat prevented me from visiting the sword-factory, where blades sre
made in triplet layers, that will cut a man, or a lady’s veil in two, yet will coil:
like a watch-spring.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 485

was abandoned for Madrid, in addition to the central situation of
the latter. To get about in Toledo, you must scramble, or climb, or
ride a sure-footed mule, for only two or three streets in the whole
city are fit for driving, and even in these it is a perilous adventure,
In former times, when a sleek donkey was deemed quite dignified
enough for a cardinal or a duke, and when queens were well con-
tent to progress on ambling genets, the ups and downs of these
narrow ways presented no fatal obstacle to the then received modes
of locomotion. But so soon as not only great personages, but even
ordinary mortals, learned to consider carriage-driving as one of
the requirements of existence, the abandonment of Alpine cities
like this became the immediate corollary of the new mode of con-
veyance. The streets of Madrid are level, straight, and wide
enough: those of Toledo are delightfully the contrary ; and thus
the simple introduction of a new luxury proved its irrevocable
doom.
. . . . .

The drive from the old “Fonda de Lino” to the railway
station is one of the few that can be accomplished with safety, and
even this is steep to a degree, and precipitous in places. You pass
under a rea/, not an imaginary “ Puerta del Sol,” built after the
reconquest, but still in Moorish style. It is brown and massive,
with lofty flame-shaped battlements, and horse-shoe arches that
telescope one into another. Then you are taken rapidly over the
bridge of Alcantéra, which spans the wide Tagus with two noble
arches, round, Roman, and bold. It was rebuilt in the days of
the Cordovan caliphate by the grand Vizier Almanzor, the same
who enlarged the great Mosque. It was rebuilt again by one of
the prince-bishops of Toledo in the fourteenth century : the water
beneath it seems rushing in curious creamy wavelets, the reflection
of the dove-coloured rocks around, then flows away to the south
and west through a chasm, and is seen no more.

From this bridge the view back is unique. -The hill on which
the city stands seems one tangled mass of walls and houses, rising
out of cliff, and of a colour with them. High above, crowning
all, is the Alcazar, looking bleak and neglected. Low down is
the “ Puerta del Sol” through which we have just passed, From
this gate a double line of ramparts branches off, encircling the
city with zig-zag bends : the lower wall dates from the reconquest,
the upper is of Vizigoth antiquity, and perhaps its substructures
are the cyclopean relic of a forgotten race. Too soon the magic
view becomes a memory, but a memory to be cherished, like the
radiant hopes of to-morrow .. . Adieu.

( 486.)

AWAEENING.
BY RVELYN PYNE,

He, the storm! The bitter blinding rain!
‘The deafening thunder, and the lightning keen
That ecathes my straining eyes ere they have seen
The perilous pitfalls fiend-set for myb ane
And, oh ! this darknese, that hath rendered vain
My frantic struggles toward thet light serene
Where Love loves always, with no hate between
Alas! I fall, I perish! Oh, this pain!

Lord, am I dreaming? Is my scarred face laid
Against Thy pale pierced feet, and did I fall
Just where Thy cross stands? Was the storm Thy call P
“The pain, Thy strong veiled angel guiding me P
Ah, Sweetest, had J known, how ardently
For deeper woe and darkness had I prayed!

AFTER DEATH.

BY KATHARINE TYNAN.
OW the night goes, the grey-veiled shadows flee,
Leave me not yet, my friend, the dawn ia fair

Shed on thine amber eyes and shimmering hair,

‘Yea, and thy Paradise is fair to see;

Lovely those hills whose gold mista dassle me,
‘And the sweet pastures, and the shining air;
Lovely yon city passing all compare,

‘How its roee-radiant towers rise arrowily!

Sweet will it be in those flowered fields to rest,
The way was weary, and the night was dark,
Thou with the rainbow in thy folded wings,

Thou who hast borne me hither on thy breast,
Stay with me yet, but hark! the music hark!
How the lutes swell, and every clear harp sings!

€ 487.)

A BOOEWORM'S FAST.
BY A. F. NORTH.

HOPELESSLY wet day—one of those reminders of winter
which occur now and then, even in June; a sort of rever-
sion, in fact, to what may be considered the original type of
weather in these latitudes. A straight, heavy downpour blots out
all the view of the distant headlands, and causes sea and sky to
merge in one monotonous expanse of grey mist. There is not even
a gust of wind to give variety to the scene, or to lash the stagnant
sea into angry life; the splash of the rain-drope on the sand supplies
the only visible motion or audible sound in the whole expanse
commanded by my sitting-room windows.

I agree with Longfellow that a rainy day in summer is often
pleasant, but the sea-side is not the place in which to enjoy it
properly, more particularly where one is as I am now, alone in a
somewhat dingy lodging, and utterly destitute of books. Therein
lies the gist of my unhappiness. If I were provided with the
silliest novel, the driest epitome of science or history, I could
extract some degree of entertainment from its pages, while the
possession of a book which was really after my own heart would
enable me to laugh at the rain, or rather to bless it for giving me
a sufficient excuse for spending the first of my holidays in my
own way. .

And but one short hour ago, I thought this bliss was to be mine.
I had come to Smoothsands unprovided with literature of any
kind, trusting to the excellent public library which I knew existed
in the sleepy little town ; and I had gone off that morning armed
with the necessary guarantee, and a long list carefully compiled
from the library catalogue, my mind filled with pleasant anticipa-
tions of new books to be read and old ones to be re-read in the long,
unoccupied hours before me. There was a sort of flavour of for-
bidden fruit too, to add zest to the proposed enjoyment, I being
under strict medical injunctions to abstain from all mental effort
for the next few weeks. In fact, the higher powers at home, in
the persons of my sister and niece, had sternly excluded all printed
matter from my luggage, and I had submitted with unwonted
meekness, sustained by the knowledge (unshared by the aforesaid
higher powers) of the existence of this same library.

488 A Bookworm’s Fast.

And now the library was closed ; a notice posted up on the door
intimating that this hard measure had been adopted for the purpose
of stocktaking, and that no books would be given out until the
following Monday.

Well, I am not, I hope, one of those foolish souls, despised by
Carlyle, who are unreasonable enough to imagine that they are to
be happy. The present contretemps is not quite without parallel in
my previous experience, so I turned my face homeward, and
plodded along the wet and shining pavement, pondering in my
mind various plans for obtaining the sustenance I craved. There
is a bookstall at the railway station, but it is only open for the ten
minutes immediately preceding the departure of the trains, and I
knew that no train left Smoothsands for full five hours. Should I
knock at one of those handsome houses in St. Mildred’s-road, and
representing my hard case, beg in the name of Christian charity
for the loan of a volume or two? Such a beggar would, I feared,
receive even scantier courtesy than is usually awarded to the regular
brethren of the craft. There was nothing for it but to return
home and endure privation until evening, and then see what
resources the railway bookstall affords to those who are on the spot
at the right moment for securing its treasures.

There, on my sitting-room table, lies, as if to mock me, the
catalogue over which I pored so lovingly one short hour ago, and
from which I derived so many happy anticipations. It is like the
bill of fare of a banquet placed before a starving person.

I glance down its pages, feeling my sorrow augmented by the
remembrance of happier things; long days and wakeful nights
cheered by some of those very books whose names stand in incon-
gruous juxta-position owing to their alphabetical arrangements in
its columns. If this catalogue is not a book, it has been near
books, and for their sakes I hold it in my hand and gently turn its
pages. Many of the books it contains are old friends, while more
are by writers known to me through their other works. Let us try
what memory and imagination, working on these slender materials,
can do towards supplying my needs,

“Out of Doors, by the Reo. J. G. Wood.” I never read this
book, but I can imagine its charming descriptions of bird and beast,
their household arrangements, and quaint, queer little ways. I
think I never derived so much lasting pleasure from any book as
I did from the “Common Objects” of this writer. The two
little volumes were given to us as children during a stay at the
sea-side, and the delight we felt on being able to identify many of

A Bookworm's Fast. 489

the objects pictured and described therein, gave a certain life and
reality to the book, and, through it, to many others which had
hitherto been mere abstractions. An aquarium was of course the
first practical result : a glass jar was procured, in shape something
like a flower-pot, and capable of holding about two quarts. This
glass had been originally intended to receive decoration by means
of potichimante or some of the other pseudo-artistic abominations
current at the time, but it made an excellent aquarium, standing
steadily without any of the contrivances necessary in the case of
inverted bell-glasses, and allowing its contents to be seen without
distortion. Our first efforts were unsuccessful owing to our attempts
to acclimatize star-fish, hermit crabs, and other creatures of delicate
constitutions and eccentric habits; but, made wiser by experience,
we confined ourselves to the hardier sorts, and succeeded in keep-
ing for several monihg, a pretty little group consisting of some of
the commoner anemones, a limpet or two, and half a dozen peri-
winkles, the latter being useful in mowing down with their sharp
little tongues the green fungus-like growth which quickly covers
the sides of the glass and obscures the view. The necessary
balance between the animal and vegetable life was supplied by
some broad fronds of green and brown laver, attached to small
stones, and a tiny tuft of pinkish white coralline. Nothing could
be prettier than the little tank when a few hours of winter sun-
shine had coaxed the anemones to unfold their crimson, petal-like
tentacles with torquoise beads between, and studded the sea-weeds .
with little sparkling bubbles of oxygen, liberated by its rays. This
little colony remained in a healthy condition, as I have said, for
several months, but at the end of that time, one of the limpets
died unnoticed in a retired corner, and there being no crabs,
shrimps, or other scavengers to exterminate his remains, the
waters became polluted, and quickly caused the death of all the
inhabitants of the tank.

In later life I was the possessor of a freshwater aquarium con-
tained in a large inverted bell-glass. Freshwater aquaria are, I
think, quite as interesting as the marine ones, their inhabitants, if
not quite so wonderful in form and colour, being far more lively
and amusing to watch. In the centre of my aquarium was a
cool green tangle of aquatic plants, the leaves of which, floating
on the surface of the water, formed an effective protection against
the sun’s rays. The living population consisted of sticklebacks—

‘which must, I think, be the smallest vertebrated animals existing —
caddis worms, water beetles, and snails; and for a time, a number

490 A Bookworm’s Fast.

of little black tadpoles, apparently the imps or demons of the
little world. Harmless little demons they were, the real fiends
being the delicate-looking, beautifully-formed sticklebacks, An
observer watching the tank carefully for a short time seldom failed
to see a stickleback dart suddenly from his leafy retreat, pounce
upon a passing tadpole, seize him by the tail and give him a smart
shake after the manner of a dog worrying a rat, loosing his hold
in a minute or two, when the tadpole would swim merrily away,
his tail decorated with a large semicircular notch, sharp and clear-
cut as that made by a ticket collector’s punch. The tadpoles did
not at first seem to mind this treatment, twirling their mutilated
tails as gaily as ever, but as the tails diminished day by day, they
seemed to droop and pine, and finally they died, one by one, tailless
as full grown frogs, before the advent of their first pair of legs.

The fierce sticklebacks survived them a long time, subsisting on
water snails which they used to worry out of their shells, and when
these had been exterminated, on little bits of raw meat supplied to
them daily.

One by one, however, they also paid the debt of nature, and
when the sole survivor departed this life, the tank was in the,con-
dition of the American city in the ballad, where, the chief desper-
ado of the place having been executed, there was

“ No one to do our killing,
‘And nobody left to kill.”

Such books as those of the Rev. J. G. Wood have done much
to popularise the study of natural history, and have given a fresh
interest in life to thousands who are debarred by circumstances
from other amusements and pursuits. But the very popularity
thus given to the study of natural history has had one consequence,
unforeseen by those who have brought it about; the danger of
total extinction to many rare plants and insects caused by the col-
lecting mania. Acquisitiveness is an instinct more or leas de-
veloped in all mankind, and the first impulse with the beginner in
any branch of natural history is to make a collection, whether of
flowers, butterflies, or birds’ eggs. So long as this collection is
confined to specimens of the commoner sorts, no great harm is done
(unless, indeed, you look at the question from the bird's or the in-
sect’s point of view), but soon the love of rarities begins to develop
itself, and long before the herbarium or cabinet contains specimens
of each of the commoner sorts, some effort is made to obtain those
of the rarer varieties, either by journey to their, habitats; or by

A Bookworm’s Fast. 491

means of purchase orexchange. The exchange columns of certain
newspapers afford a fatal facility for this sort of thing, and many
districts are being completely denuded of the ferns or orchises
which constitute their speciality, by yoang ladies who offer to send
by post so many roots of such and such a plant in return for
musio, trinkets, or sometimes even for small sums of money. All
true lovers of flowers should look to this.

But to return to our catalogue. “ Oliphant, Mrs., Works of.”
Here follows a goodly list chiefly composed of novels, but includ-
ing the biographies of such widely differing personages as St.
Francis of Assisi, Edward Irving, and the Count de Montalembert ;
a History of English Literature in the Highteenth Century, a little
volume on Dress, for the Art at Home series, and some strangely
speculative stories dealing with our relations to the unseen world.
There is something very melancholy in the story of Old Lady Mary’s
return after death to her old home, where she wanders about, un-
able to make her presence manifest to anyone save a child, a
stranger to her, and her fruitless efforts to right the wrong caused
by her thoughtless self-will. She hears, however, the victim of this

express her free and loving forgiveness for it, and
content with this, she returns to what appears to be a place of
probation, there to await the will of God.

I think the last novel of Mrs. Oliphant’s which I read was
« Innocent,” a pretty story, if somewhat improbable. Innocent her-
self is one of those elaborate psychological studies which are so
often to be found in the novel of the present day. By no means
a character study ; for that complex result of impulse modified by
circumstance which we call character is as yet quite undeveloped
in the girl who has grown up almost alone in a foreign land. She
is not deficient, but she is simple ; she expresses her feelings frankly
and without any idea of restraint or concealment, and once she has
grasped an idea, she retains it unmodified by any reasoning process.
She is too gentle and docile to do wrong, but her moral sense is
still dormant. We see possibilities for her future however, and we
feel that when the story wherein she plays so important a part is
ended her life is only beginning.

The character of Amanda in this book is, I think, overdrawn, as
Mrs. Oliphant’s vulgar women are apt to be. She succeeds better
with good women. Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly are acharming study
of mother and daughter, and many similar ones are to be found in
Mrs. Oliphant’s writings—Lady Lindores and Lady Edith for in-
stance, and Lady Markham and her daughter Alice. Mrs. Oliphant’s

You. xnr., No, 147.

492 A Bookworm's Fast.

manner of writing about women is, to me, her pleasantest char-
acteristic ; her sympathies are all with her own sex, and we are
indebted to her for some very skilful studies of feminine character,
especially of the middle-aged type.

In this she offers a marked contrast to a contemporary novelist,
the author of GeorgeGeith. Mrs. Riddell is evidently one of those
women who seek to ingratiate themselves with men by depreciating
women ; even her own heroines are not safe from the spiteful and
ungenerous remarks which she seems incapable of suppressing
when a woman is in question; the said heroines being invariably
men’s women, pleasant and accommodating, but not strong in point
of either principles or brains. There is a certain Mrs. Jeffley now
pursuing a course of blameless industry through the pages of
Temple Bar, who seems to be an object of special aversion to her
creator Mrs. Riddell. Mrs. Jeffley is silly and vulgar, certainly,
but not more so than the men who surround her and with whom
Mrs. Riddell evidently sympathises. Mrs. Riddell, in fact, con-
siders Mr. Jeffly morbidly high-minded because he deems it
necessary to throw a large proportion of his salary into the common
household fund. Most people are under the impression that a
man is bound to contribute to the support of his family, but Mrs.
Riddell evidently does not share this opinion, Given the same
situation, how differently Mrs. Oliphant would have treated it.
Not, indeed, that a city boarding-house and its inhabitants would
be a congenial subject, but, had such come in her way, she would
have shown: some sympathy with poor Mrs. Jeffley, and have treated
her little foibles tenderly.

Mrs, Eastwood’s son Jemmy (Plantagenet) is a new departure
in schoolboys. He describes himself as a Women’s Rights man
because he is a woman's son; and he speaks of his sister’s future
husband as “ Mr. Nelly” by way of showing that he considers her,
at least in the eyes of her own family, as the more important per-
sonage of the two. Mrs. Oliphant is not a Women’s Rights
woman ; indeed she sometimes makes rather severe remarks on the
subject ; yet I think some of her quietly expressed opinions on man-
kind in general must make a masculine reader feel rather small,
whether said remarks are uttered in her own name, or in that of the
numerous mothers, sisters, and aunts who throng her pages.

And, apropos of the sisters and the aunts, I may remark that
among them are to be found some good specimens of the genus
spinster, Miss Jeans and Miss Barbaras, by no means of the con-
ventional type, a prey to sad memories, and always summoned by

A Bookworm's Fast. 498

their relations when the children have the measles ; but sensible,
active women, filling definite places in the world, living their own
lives, and exerting a considerable influence, generally for good,
over the lives of others. Indeed, the most superficial student of
fiction cannot fail to be struck by the improved position accorded
to single women in the literature of the present day. The elderly
anmarried woman of the modern novel is generally good-looking,
with lovely white hair covered by a little cap of cobwebby lace,
and a black dress which is always either fashionable or picturesque.
She is rich too, or at least independent, and her house is a rendezvous
for all the clever and pleasant persons in the neighbourhood. Some
little time since, I beguiled the tedium of a long railway journey
with the summer number of one of the magazines, and the first
thing that struck me was the large proportion of single women
among its dramatis persone. It contained six short stories by
different writers; and in four of these stories were to be found
fascinating single ladies, each of whom exercised a decided in-
fluence on the progress of the story. Some day, when I have as
much time to devote to the subject as it deserves, I mean to make
a cageful study of Spinsters in Fiction.

“The Letters of the Mendelssohn Family, edited by Sebastian
Hensel.”

This book is a family chronicle, not unlike that of the Fer-
ronays family, although ita subjects are German Jews instead of
French Catholics. Not indeed that Felix Mendelssohn and his
sisters were of the Jewish religion ; their father, Abraham Mendels-
sobn, having caused them to be brought up Protestants, with a view
to freeing them from the disabilities, social and political, which still
fettered the Jews in Germany. Changes of religion were not in-
frequent in the family, two of Felix Mendelesohn’s aunts having
become Catholics.

The younger Mendelesohns seem to have had a happy child-
hood and youth in their home in the Leipziger Strasse ; with every
facility for study, and that best of culture which is given by associ-
ation with its possessors. Felix, when eleven years old, was taken
by his music master to Weimar, and remained a fortnight in
Goethe’s house, whence he writes enthusiastic letters to his father
and his sister Fanny, four years his senior. In spite of the objeo-
tions raised by some members of the family, he was allowed to take
up music as a profession, and his life, although short, appears to
have been a brighter and happier one than usually falls to the lot of
men of genius, Fanny Mendelssohn married the painter, Wilhelm

494 A Bookworm’s Fast.

Hensel, after an engagement of some years’ standing. Wilhelm
Hensel was brother to Louise Hensel the poetess. She had been
attached in early youth to Clement Brentano, afterwards the bio-
grapher of Catherine Emmerich, but their marriage was prevented
by her conversion to Catholicity, Brentano’s divorced wife being
still living.

Fanny Hensel’s life was as bright and nearly as short as that of
her brother. Married to an artist, herself a musician, composer as
well as performer, she lived in the midst of a musical and artistic
eet; she was deeply attached to her husband as well as to her own
family, from whom she was scarcely ever separated, and she was the
first of her generation to die. It is her son, Sebastian Hensel, who
edits the family chronicle.

A considerable portion of the book consists of letters written
from Italy by the sisters Fanny and Rebecca, the latter of whom was
married to the mathematician Derichlet. These letters, Fanny's
especially, are lively and natural, and contain a good deal of gossip
about musical and artistic society in Rome and Florence. Fanny
notes in her diary the fears entertained by Gounod’s friends lest
he should fall under the spell of Pére Lacordaire’s influence ag far
as to forsake his art and enter religion.

Lacordaire himself had lately made his profession as a Domini-
can (ordination, Fanny Hensel calls it; there is an account of the
ceremony in the journal of Alexandrine de la Ferronays) and was
exerting all his eloquence in public and influence in private to draw
into the church all those whose mental gifts were likely to be servioe-
able to the cause of religion ; such efforts being of course looked
on with suspicion by the artistic and musical world whose brightest
lights he thus coveted.

Felix Mendelssohn and Fanny Hensel died in the same year,
1847, I think.

“ The Journal and Letters of Caroline Fox” derive their interest
less from the quiet Quaker authoress than from the little group.
of friends whose sayings and doings she chronicles. Her father
‘was a man of some note in the ecientific world, and the family lived
on terms of intimacy with some of the deepest thinkers of the day.
The Mills and Carlyles, Sterling, Wordsworth, and the younger
Coleridges are among the dramatis persone who fill the pages of
the journal. Caroline Fox seems to have possessed, in an unusual
degree, the power of remembering and recording the conversations
to which she listened, and in this way her journal becomes filled
with the familiar unstudied utterances of those whose published

; Notes on New Books. 495

-words carry most weight in the world of thought and letters. I
passed Carlyle’s house lately. The only distinction between it and
the other houses in Cheyne Row is the high roof, evidently raised
in the construction of that sound-proof chamber in the roof which
poor Mrs. Carlyle vainly hoped would secure quiet for the irritable
philosopher, and peace for the sorely-tried household. If I hada
wife who would arrange a sound-proof study for me, send me away
for change of air whenever my temper was worse than usual, and
-act generally as buffer, between my sensitive organisation andan un-
appreciative world, I almost think I could write immortal works
myself. Some woman, whom I cannot now remember, has said that
the want of wives is the real disability under which working men
suffer, and the possession of them the main cause of any intellectual
superiority of which men can boast. Was it Lady Ashburton who
said that P It sounds like one-of her shrewd remarks. If so, the
idea must have originated in a prolonged etudy of the Carlyles.

The Carlyles are a suggestive subject. Even those who, like
me, cannot presume to criticise or even to understand the Philo-
sophy of Clothes, or the French Revolution, can find food for
thought, of a kind, too, that assimilates easily with one’s own ideas,
in Mrs. Oarlyle’s bright lively letters.

But as I look up, I see that the rain has stopped, and the clouds
shave lifted on the horizon, showing a bright line of clear, colour-
tinted light. It is going to be a fine evening, and it is time to set
-off for the railway station, in search of something more substantial
in the way of reading than my own reminiscences of books that I
have read.

NEW BOOKS.

‘Txovan a good thing may be done too often, it will be no harm to
mention a good book a second time, even if we have already introduced
it to our readers, ‘Mary Foreshadowed ; or Considerations on the Types
and Figures of our Blessed Lady in the Old Testament,” by the Rev.
¥. Thaddeus, 0.8.F. (London: Washbourne). Itis no doubt by design
that the meditations reach precisely the number of thirty-one, which
makes the book convenient as a new and novel Mois de Marie. The
plan of the book leads us to study some of the most beautiful passages
of the Old Testament ; and this is very much better than when a spiritual
writer, especially a mere contemporary, elaborates his considerations
out of nothing in particular, as a spider spins his web. . Telum aranea
tezuerunt. The book is brought out with the care and taste which the

496 Notes on New Books.

publisher bestows on all the books that are issued under his auspices—
some of them not quite worthy of such pains, For instance, what
readers will be served by perusing “ A Village Beauty and Other
Tales”? These laboriously edifying stories of sin and repentance
seem to be good for neither the innocent nor the penitent; and some
of the nine pictures which illustrate the present book and which must
have cost a good deal, do not increase its suitableness for a lending
library. The writer’s object is excellent; we consider the means in-
judicious. What a pity that the cost of such publications is not spent
on disinterring from back volumes of The Month such a tale as “ Wafted
Seeds,” which, if procurable in an independent form, would be a reat
gain to Catholic literature. But here isa Catholic story-book brought
out prettily and even daintily, which, though written with the best
intentions, we cannot conscientiously recommend to any convent
lending library as an item in its next supply of new books.

“The Lion and the Frog,” (M. H. Gill & Son) is the answer of an
imaginary Frenchman to recent English attacks on French character
and customs provoked by the rather flippant homilies of Max O’Rell.
All these writings seem to be prompted by no very Christian spirit, and
the wit is generally of a pathetic kind.

Mr. Washbourne has published a “‘ Sketch of the Life of St. Francis
of Assisi,” by Amelia Lucy Cotton. It is neatly written, but we
should have wished a nearer approach to the spirit of the Fioretti.

A Bister of Mercy—who seems to belong to the convent at Coventry,
for the work may be procured from that community—has translated
from the French ‘“Contemplations and Meditations on the Public Life
of our Lord Jesus Christ, according to the method of St. Ignatius.'”
(London: R. Washbourne.) The two volumes have come to us bound
inone. The same translator had previously given us the Meditations
on the Passion, Death, and Glorious Life of our Lord. The present
volume has had the great advantage of being revised by the Rev.
‘William Amherst, S.J., who has also prefixed a very practical introduc-
tion. This, and an examination of several meditations here and there,
give us a high opinion of this newest addition to our ascetic literature.

Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son, of Dublin, have brought outa new and
illustrated edition of ‘‘ The Virgin Mother of Good Counsel” by Mon-
signor Dillon, of Sydney, Australia. This handsome volume of more
than four hundred pages gives the history of the ancient sanctuary of
Our Lady of Good Counsel at Genazzano in Italy, and of the miracu-
lous translation thither of the sacred image from Scutari in Albania
in the year 1467, A great many interesting topics are touched upon
incidentally, and much edifying information is conveyed. On one
small point we are glad, on Monsignor Dillon’s authority, to correct a
mistake which we allowed to pass with much misgiving in this
magazine a year or two ago. The holy philanthropic priest ‘of Italy,
of whose life and work a pleasing sketch was given at that time, ought.

Notes on New Books. 497

to have been called Don Bosco, not Dom Bosco, “Don” is the usual
title of secular priests in Italy: “‘Dom” is prefixed to the names of
Benedictines.

Mrs, Rhoda White, the American Catholic lady, whose biography
of her daughter, Jenny White del Bal, we noticed some months ago,
has since published, through Messrs. James Duffy and Sons, of Dublin
an interesting story under the title of “ What will the World Say?”
Though sensational in its plot, it adheres to real facts, and American
readers have no difficulty in identifying many of the characters. The
story enforces a useful practical lesson in a most striking way, none
the less so on account of the transatlantic flavour in thought and style,
incident and desoription.

“The Irish Readings ” published by the Nation newspaper (Abbey-
street, Dublin) have reached their sixth weekly issue. The Numbers be-
fore us contain essays and speeches by Mr. Parnell, Mr. T. M. Healy,
Mr. Lecky, Mr. Thomas Sherlock, Mr. Davitt, Isaac Butt, O'Connell,
Meagher, Sir Gavan Duffy, and Dr. Nulty, Bishop of Meath. But, great
as these names are, the brightest bits of prose are, we think, the three
extracts from John Mitchel, Father Joseph Farrell, and Mr. William
O’Brien, M.P. The poets in these new numbers are Helena Callanan,
Thomas S. Cleary, the Rev. P. M. Furlong, Mrs. Power O'Donoghue,
Daniel Crilly, J. F. O'Donnell, T. D. Sullivan, Daniel Connolly, and
Miss Katharine Tynan, whose fine poem, ‘‘ The King’s Cupbearer,” is
not included in her recently published volume.

And now a word about some of our contemporaries—those namely
that take the trouble of tapping every month at the door of our
editorial sanctum. The two most important of these cross the Atlantio—
the large monthly magazine, “The Catholic World,” under the auspices
ofthe Paulist Fathers of New York, and the “American Catholic
Quarterly” of Philadelphia, both of them in the fore front of con-
temporary Catholic literature. Of strictly clerical journals we know
of nothing to surpass the “ Irish Ecclesiastical Record.”

The opening number of “ Hibernia” has appeared in London, with
contributions from the Rev. H. 8. Fagan, Miss Charlotte O’Brien, Miss
Skeffington Thompson, Mr. Huntley McCarthy, and others. This
candidate for public favour is animated with a generous Irish spirit.

The August number of the League of the Cross Magasine contains
an interesting specimen of a poet’s prose. “‘ Jem’s Repentance,” by
Miss Katharine Tynan, is a very bright pathetic little tale, with some bits
of description in it, worthy even of the muse that sings ao delightfully
“In the May” in the current number of the Dublin Unsversity Review.
By the way, why does so learned a periodical speak of the poet
“Grey”? And why does it, three times over, put a w into the first
syllable of Cardinal Baronius? Andis it Dean Swift or the D.U.B. that
offends twice by accident against Latin accidence ?

498 Notes on New Books.

Happy is the author whose work is in its thirty-first thousand.
What poet, what historian, nay, what novelist can make such a boast P
Many are proud when one thousand copies of their darling opus
magnum (or parvum, as the case may be) are scattered by the book-
sellers—helped by the wastepaper merchants. Yet here is a little book
published first in 1879, and its new issue for 1885 bears on the title-
page these words, “ thirty first thousand.” Itis “ The Catholic Child’s
Bible History: A Text Book for School and Home Use, compiled by
the Sisters of Mercy, Downpatrick.” It is published by Mesers. M. H.
Gill and Son, of Dublin, but it may also be obtained from the zealous
Sisters, whose practical experience taught them the need of a little
treatise on the Old and the New Testament, not so dear as some already
published and at the same time giving fuller matter than the very
cheap ones furnish. They devote a separate threepenny book to each
of the Testaments, that devoted to the New Testament consisting of
more than a hundred pages, into which a wonderful amount of clearly
arranged matter is condensed. The success of these two admirable
little books may be partly attributed to the very special and systematic
attention given to religious instruction in the schools of Down and
Connor under the vigilant direction of the Diocesan Inspector, the
Rev. D. M‘Cashin; but they have also made their way into other
dioceses and other countries, and even to Australia and the United
States.

‘We can at present do no more than announce the appearance of two
important works by two Irish prieste—for the first Australian Oardinal
ie still an Irish priest. Cardinal Moran has added another to his many
great services to our ecclesiastical literature by publishing a third
volume of his splendid “Collection of original letters and documents
illustrative of the history of Ireland from the Reformation to the year
1800,” which from his first diocese he called Spictlegium Ossoriense.
Will His Eminence honour the great Archdiocese of Sydney in a
similar manner P

‘The other work is the second volume of the Very Rev. M. Comer-
ford’s History of the United Dioceses of Kildare and Leighlin. In
this portion of his task the zealous pastor of Monasterevan gives an
account of all the parishes of Kildare—their patron saints, antiquities,
succession of parish priests, &c. The last pages of the book are
devoted to Clongowes Wood College. We wish that in every diocese
in Ireland some learned priest was at work, making at least manuscript
collection of materials which might hereafter enable him or some one
else to do for the diocese in question what Father O'Laverty has done
for Down and Oonnor, Dean Cogan for Meath, and Father Comerford
for Kildare and Leighlin.

( 499 )

PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS.

A Farxp has mentioned to me a saying of O’Connell’s which he
heard from Mr. O'Neill Daunt. Mr. Daunt one day asked the
Liberator if he was anxious for future fame. “Fame? What would
fame be to me when once I am judged?” This reminded another
friend of what Edmund Burke said:—‘Unless I greatly deceive
myself, I would not give one peck of refuse wheat for all that men

-calljfame and honour.”
* * .

In our April Number, page 211, there is a sonnet “ At Daybreak”
signed with the letters “K.T.” which will now be recognised as the
initials.of the Author of “ Louise de la Valliére and other Poems.”
Strangely similar, especially in the opening words, is the following
little poem which appeared at the same date in The Weekly Register
(April 4, 1885), by Mr. Frederick George Scott of Montreal.

“BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK.”
1 HEARD a voice at midnight, and it oried :

“0 weary heart, O soul for which I died,
Why wilt thou spurn My wounded Hands and Side?

“Is there a heart more tender, more divine,

‘Than that ond Heart which gave iteelf for thine?
Coald there be love more warm, more full than Mine ?
“What other touch can still thy trembling breath ?
‘What other Hand can hold thee after death ?

‘What Bread so sweet to him that hungereth ?

“ Warm is thy chamber, soft and warm thy bed ;
Bleak howling winds are round the path I tread—
The Son of Man can nowhere lay His Head.

“* Wilt thou not open to Me ?—To-and-fro
I wander weary, through the driving mow ;
But colder still that thou shouldst spurn Me so.
“Poor weary heart, so worn and sad within,
Ob, open to thy Friend, thy Strength from sin,
‘That I with all My love may enter in !”
T heard a voice at midnight, and I eried :
“Ó Lord, I need Thy wounded Hands and Side '—
I need Thy love! Lord, enter and abide !”

. . .

A sportaman one day set his dog after a hare.

“Seize him! seize him!” cried the sportaman.

The dog sprang forward with all his might, caught him'at last
‘and held him fast with his teeth.

500 Pigeonhole Paragraphs.

The sporteman then took the hare by the ears, and said to the
dog: “ Let go! let go!” i

The dog immediately let it go; and the sportsman put the hare
into his game-bag.

A party of villagers had been looking on; and an old peasant,
who was of the number, said: “The miser is just like this dog.
Avarice calls out to the miser : ‘ Seize it! seize it!’ and he obeys, and
pursues, with all his power, the riches of this world. At last Death
comes, and says: ‘Let go! let go!’ and the wretched man is obliged
to give up the riches which he obtained with so much labour.

. . .

Professor John Ruskin, author of “ Modern Painters,” and many
other admirable books, has published his latest work, “ Fors
Olavigera,” in such costly instalments, month by month, stretching
over so many years, and has offered them to the public in so novel and
capricious a manner, that the series is known only to a very limited
circle. The following tribute to the dignity and influence of the
Immaculate Mother will thus be probably unknown to nearly all of
our readers,

. * .

“ Of the sentiments which in all ages have distinguished the gentle-
man from the churl, the first is that reverence for womanhood, which,
even through all the cruelties of the Middle Ages developed itself
with increasing power until the thirteenth century, and became con-
summated in the imagination of the Madonna, which ruled over all
the highest arts and purest thoughts of that age.

“To the common Protestant mind the dignities ascribed to the
Madonna have been always a violent offence; they are one of the
parts of the Catholic faith which are open to reasonable dispute,
and least comprehensible by the average realistic and materialist
temper of the Reformation. But, after the most careful examination,
neither as adversary nor as friend, of the influences of Catholicism for
good and evil, I am persuaded that the worship of the Madonna has.
been one of its noblest and most vital graces, and has never been
otherwise than productive of true holiness of life and purity of
character. I do not enter into any question as to the truth or fallacy
of the idea; I no more wish to defend the hietorical or theological
position of the Madonna than that of St. Michael or St. Christopher ;
but I am certain that to the habit of reverent belief in, and contempla-
tion of, the character ascribed to the heavenly hierarchies, we must
ascribe the highest results yet achieved in human nature; and that it is
neither Madonna-worship nor saint-worship, but the evangelical self-
worship, and hell-worship—gloating, with an imagination as unfounded
as it is foul, over the torments of the damned, instead of the glories of
the blest,—which have in reality degraded the languid powers of Ohris-

Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 501

tianity to their present state of shame and reproach. There has pro--
bably not been an innocent cottage-home throughout the length and
breadth of Europe during the whole period of vital Christianity in.
which the imagined presence of the Madonna has not given sanctity
to the humblest duties, and comfort to the eorest trials of the lives of
women ; and every brightest and loftiest achievement of the arts and.
strength of manhood has been the fulfilment of the assured prophecy
of the Israelite maiden, ‘ He that is mighty hath magnified me, and.
holy is His Name.”
. . .

The foregoing passage occurs in the 41st Letter, published very
appropriately on the first of May, 1874. We may join with it
this remarkable sentence from Nathaniel Hawthorne's “Blithedale
Romance.” ‘I have always envied the Catholics their faith in that
sweet, sacred Virgin Mother, who stands between them and the Deity,
intercepting somewhat of His awful splendour, but permitting His
love to stream upon the worshipper more intelligibly to human com-
prehension through the medium of a woman’s tenderness.”

* . .

Miss Mary Anderson, the Catholic American actress, once ended a
very successful engagement with these remarkably simple words of
farewell :—

“Good-bye to you. You have been very, very good to me. I
have tried hard to deserve your goodness. Please do not quite forget
me. I can never forget you or your kindness to me. I hope I am not
saying good-bye to you for ever. I want to come back to you. Dare
I hope you will be a little glad to see me? Until I come, good-bye!
I thank you again.” :

sl . *

The forty most prominent literary people in the United States! In
the following attempt to draw up such a list there does not seem to be
a single Catholic mentioned. There are several of them who would be
greatly surprised to learn that they have never been heard of in
Ireland. The present paragraphist only knows twenty-six out of the
forty, and of the twenty-six many are known to him in the vaguest
and dimmest manner. .

. . .

The Critic and Good Literature has made a canvass of the prefer
ences of its readers for a possible American Academy of “Forty
Immortals,” and the following is the result, the names occurring in
the order of favour: Oliver W. Holmes, James R. Lowell, J. G.
Whittier, George Bancroft, W. D. Howells, G. W. Ourtis, T. B.
Aldrich, Bret Harte, E. C. Stedman, R. G. White, E. E. Hale, G. W.
Cable, Henry James, 8. L. Clemens, C. D. Warner, H. W. Beecher,
James Freeman Clarke, R. H. Stoddard, W. D. Whitney, Walt Whit-.

502 Winged Words.

man, Asa Gray, Noah Porter, John Fiske, Theodore D. Woolsey, A.
B. Aloott, Julian Hawthorne, John Burroughs, Mark Hopkins, T. W
Higginson, J. G. Saxe, 0. B. Frothingham, George P. Fisher, Moses
Coit Taylor, Charles A. Dana, D. G. Mitchell, Alexander Winchell,
Edwin P. Whipple, G. P. Lathrop, W. W. Story, and Francis Park-
man. It is curious that in this list there is but one editor of a daily
newspaper, Mr. Dana. The Critio intimates that the Academy will
probably never be realised, and recalls an abortive attempt to found
-a “National Institute” in 1868.

WINGED WORDS.
‘Wear minds easily mistake violence for strength and effrontery for
courage.— The Times.

After the fever of life, after wearinesses and sicknessos, fightings
and despondings, languor and fretfulness, struggling and succeeding,
-after all the changes and chances of this troubled, unhealthy state, at
length comes death, at length the white throne of God, at length the
‘beatific vision. — Cardinal Newman.

True faith does not covet comforts; they who realise that awfal
“day when they shall see Him face to face, whose eyes are asa flame of
fire, will as little bargain to pray pleasantly now as they will think of
doing so then.—The Same,

Pride, like the magnet, constantly points to one object, self; but,
anlike the magnet, it has no attractive pole, but at all points repels.—
Anon,

There is no policy like politeness; and a good manner is the beet
thing in the world, either to get a good name or supply the want of it.
— Anon.

‘Whatever our place allotted to us by Providence, that for us is the
post of duty. God estimates us not by the position we are in, but by
the way in which we fill it.—Anon.

The Eternal God deals with us one by one, each in his own way}
-and bystanders may pity and compassionate the long throes of our

travail, but they cannot aid us except by their prayers.—Oardinal
Newman,

MARCELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

avrmon or masren's wierony,” “THR WICKED WooDs oF TonrENEYIL.” “m.DEROOWAR,”
“PR WALKING TRESS AXD OTHSR TALES,” ETO., ETO.

CHAPTER XXII.
DEATH AND LIFE.

Darkness and horror hung over the house in Merrion Square
where two stricken women lived through their first hours of
hopeless and inconsolable anguish. The mother’s appalling shriek
when she heard the fatal news was followed by a fit of violence
which subsided after a time and left her mind unhinged and
full of delusions. Happily, her insanity involved entire forgetful-
ness of the misfortune which had overturned her reason. She be-
lieved that Bryan was travelling abroad for his pleasure. He had
andertaken to make a voyage round the world, and could not be
home for a year.

“ And I am so glad he is gone,” she would exclaim, “for I
always had a dread that these Fenians might drag him into some
kind of trouble.”

“But the worst of it is,” she would whisper to Father Daly,
“that I fear Marcella thinks he has forgotten her. She ought
not to indulge such fancies ; but you see she is looking shockingly
il.”

Marcella's suffering was of a differentorder. No shrieks came
from her, and no merciful madness blotted out the terrible reality
from her mind. With white lips and sunken eyes she tried
to listen to Father Daly’s religious exhortations, but heard
nothing. The roar of a sea that had no shore was in her ears,
shipwreck lay all around her, and a ghastly something to which
her eyes as yet had given no shape, loomed on her horizon.

“ Can you not ory a little, my child P” said Father Daly, seeing
that his words of attempted consolation did not reach her brain.
‘The tears were rolling down his own wrinkled face.

“There will be time enough'to ory—afterwards,” she said; “I
am going now to Bryan. He will be expecting me.”

Vou. xn, No. 148. October, 1885. 38.

'
,
1
i

504 Harcella Grace.

This was the day after the close of the trial, when she knew
that his death, a horrible and disgraceful death, was soon to sepa-
rate them.

“ My dear, I am afraid to let you see him yet. I have been with
him this morning and he is as brave asa lion. Remember, it is
your part now to keep up his courage. I fear if you go to him
like this you will break him down.”

“T think I am not going to break him down. The martyrs
who were burned and crucified did not break each other down.
God will help us, too.”

Then he took her to the prison and left her alone with Kil-
martin for an hour, keeping near the cell so that he could be
summoned if needed. But Marcella made no scene. She seemed
to have no longer any feeling for her own suffering, physical or
mental. Her whole soul appeared occupied with the necessity for
being helpful to Kilmartin in his need.

“I never seen a young creature suffer so brave and not die of
it,” said the warder to the priest. “Them that screams and faints
get over it afterwards, but trouble like that drops down on a
suddent when it can do no more.”

Father Daly agreed, and acknowledged to himself that ao to
drop down might be the best thing Marcella could do after the
final touch had been put to the tragedy. Only he felt a grave
doubt as to whether her unnatural strength would keep up so
long.

It was some relief to him when, on returning home that even-
ing, she fell into an agony of natural grief, moaning and weeping,
and calling upon God to deliver her from insupportable torment.
He and Bridget watched beside her all night, and he strove through
the long terrible hours to save her reason from becoming wrecked
by the paroxysms of frenzy which attacked her brain as each
fresh image from the hideous future rose with ghastly reality
before the eyes of: her imagination.

She not only knew but had realised now that Bryan had got
to die a felon’s death.

Her reiterated cry, “Father Daly, is there a God—is there a
God?” brought down the old man’s sympathetic tears plentifully.
He could not bring himeelf to rebuke her for her unbelief, only
kept saying:

“There is a God, my dear, and He is good. The cross is his
throne, the crown of thorns was on his own head before He put it
on yours.”

Marcella Grace. 505

. He believed that the first despairing ravings of a broken heart
are not heeded in heaven. Mercy waits patiently for the crushed
spirit to right itself, for the soul burning in flames of anguish to
rise out of the fury and delirium of the fiery furnace before words
of faith and resignation come meekly from the tongue.

Towards morning she became more calm, her natural thought-
fulness for others returned, and she reproached herself for robbing
the kind old man of his rest.

A little later she was taken possession of by a frantic hope
which kept her in a fever of expectation for days.

“It is quite impossible that it could happen,” she suid.
“Something will come to prove the truth. I will go to the Lord
Lieutenant myself and tell him so. I will ask him to wait and to
consider. When he thinks over the matter he will see what I
mean. It is utterly impossible that in a Christian country such a
horror should be permitted iú

Father Daly assisted her to carry out this intention, and
acoompanied her to the Castle, and stood by her during the short
interview granted her with Viceroyalty. His Excellency explained
to her that, unfortunately, her interference was useless. The case
had been fully established, and in a matter of this kind it was
impossible to take the life of one criminal and spare that of another.
The fact that the convict was a gentleman only aggravated his
crime. The terrible words were gently if coldly spoken, and Mar-
cella had only herself to blame for the extra suffering heaped on
her by thie incident.

After that she went down again into the abyss where there is
no God and no hope, only the howling temptations that set upon
an immortal soul given up to despair. And again Father Daly
watched and waited for her return, praying for her who could not
pray for herself, and at last he was rewarded by seeing her rise
once more into the light of heaven and look at him with sane and
seeing eyes.

Then, with an astonishing rally of all her powers, she would
behave herself during her visit to Bryan with a courage which
amazed both the priest and the condemned man, And so the fear-
ful hours went past, like a slow lifetime of torture, and the day for
the final separation began to draw near.

As for Kilmartin himeelf, he was, as Father Daly had said,
brave as a lion, looking his terrible and disgraceful end in the face
with the calmness of a true soldier who is losing his life in the
thick of the fight. Somebody must die when there is a cause to

508 Marcella Grace.

be won, and it is not always where glory has been earned that it is
given. A scaffold will do as well as a battlefield for the passing
of a martyr. He had made mistakes in his time, and let this
expiate them, seeing that death was not the wages of mistake,
nor of any wrong-doing, but had followed directly in the wake
of his daring resolution to do right.

His deepest trouble was for Marcella. God had comforted his
mother with a merciful oblivion, and she would, perhaps, never,
while she lived, know of the fate of her son. But it was for the
young and passicnate soul, strong to suffer, and valiant in its
desire to fight his fight with him to the end, for whom there was
no oblivion, nothing but wakeful wide-eyed anguish in store, that
the heart of his manhood was wrung almost to the destruction of
his courage. The sight of her bleached mouth, and eyes wither-
ing away in her head with sorrow was more than he could bear.
He wished that Father Daly would take her at once to some other
country where she might remain till after the end—where she
could not realise the last scenes because of distance, and of unusual
surroundings. :

Father Daly shook his head when the suggestion was made to
him.

“You do not know her yet,” he said.‘ Where she is she will
stay—that is, if her body and soul keep long enough together.
I’m not at all sure, however, that she will not be in heaven before
you—will not be the first to welcome you when you get there.”

It wanted now but two days of the end, and Marcella was on
her knees, at Father Daly’s knee pouring out her heart to him asa
child to its mother

“I have given it all up, Father, and I will not struggle with
God any more, I will not make things harder for him, I will smile
at him in the last moment if you will only listen now to what I
am going to say to you. And if it seems to you very strange and
impossible you will forgive me, for perhaps I am a little mad—a
horror like this might make anyone mad, Father Daly; only I
will try to keep my wits till all is over. I could not live through
my life afterwards if I thought I had missed a word or a look of
his that I might have had with me to keep ”

Father Daly put his hand on her bent head, and prayed over
her silently, as her voice stopped and her whole frame quivered
and rocked with anguish.

“I am not crying,” she said, presently, having mastered her

Harcella Grace. 507

agony for another effort to speak, “ for I promised to look cheer-
ful the next time I see him. I promised to smile at him now
every time until the last, and I must not have my eyes all black
and red with weeping when I go to him. What I want to say to
you is this, it is always coming to me that if—I may not after all
‘be able to die, as I hope and pray I may, to-morrow, or next week :
I may even have to live yeare—and if I had had his name for my
own to go through the world with, I could have been braver. I
could claim him as my own in heaven ——”

“My dear, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage
there.”

“I know that, Father Daly, but I would like that the very
angels should know that he belonged to me.”

“My child, do you mean that you would marry him nowP”

“Oh, Father Daly, if it might be! If you would join our
hands and give us your blessing so that I might carry the name
they have blasted through my life, and might care for his mother
and his people who would then be mine.”

Father Daly was startled and shocked. A marriage in a con-
vict’s prison on the very verge of a grave, seemed to him too awful
to be thought of, and yet to this ghost-like girl with her hollow
eyes and pleading wail it seemed the only one thing in the universe
to give her a little comfort, a little courage to endure what was to
come. To bear his name in face of the world that had condemned.
him, to be able to speak of him here below as her own, and to
claim him among the angels above, to have the right to take a
daughter's place beside his afflicted mother and the place of a
mother to the people whom he had loved and was leaving forlorn,
those were the only boons that were within the limite of possibility
for her. How could any one refuse to think the matter out for
her?

He raised her from her knees and told her to take a little rest—
idle words, as he knew while he was speaking them—and he would
reflect on what she had said and consider whether anything could
be done.

When the piteous request was conveyed by the priest to the
eondemned man in his cell, Kilmartin’s courage broke down for
the first time, and those strange rare things, the tears of a brave
man, dropped on Father Daly's hands which had closed upon his
own.

“Tam not worthy of such love,” he ssid. “If I might have
lived I would have tried to be worthy of it. But how, can I be

508 Marcella Grace.

so cruel as to allow her so to destroy herself? She is young enough
to make new ties. She will not forget, but her sorrow will wear
itself out in time and a happy fate may still be in store for her.
As things stand now, her connection with me will soon be forgiven
and forgotten; but marked out by my name ——”

“I thought like you at first,” said Father Daly, “ but I have
changed my mind. That creature hasno future before her except
what is bound up with you. You have brought her, my poor lad,
under God’s providence, a great deal of sorrow ; give her the only
scrap of comfort it is in your power to bestow on her. A heart
like hers is beyond all our measurements. Only the God that made
it knows what can satiafy it, or give it rest.”

And so it was arranged, and in the felon’s cell, with Bridget
and the warder for witnesses, Father Daly made Mareella and Kil-
wartin man and wife.

“Till death do us part.” Very awful did those impressive words
of the service sound when only twenty-four hours lay between the
moment of speaking and the coming of the destroyer whose right
to part bridegroom and bride no one dared to question. “ What
God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” Yet these two
were to be sundered by man, and how soon!

That night, after the last stroke of the clock ending the prison
visiting hours had driven her away from her husband, Marcella
Kilmartin, was alone in her darkened and melancholy house,
prostrate on the floor, struggling to pray, imploring to be
allowed to keep her senses to the last and not through mad-
ness or sickness to desert her post while his eyes could look on her
and draw comfort from her smile. The hand on which he had
placed the wedding-ring with the old pearl-ring he had given her
that fatal night in the Liberties set above it as guard, was thrust
into her breast and clenched there ss she called on the God who
had made her to help her in the suffering of this hour. Through
the whirlwind of her agony a faint and spectral joy hovered near
her heart at the touch of that ring which was like a living tie
holding her to him now, and drawing her towards him here-
after.

No matter how long she might have to live here without him,
or how withered and wrinkled she might have become before the
years released her to him, he would know her looking down out of
heaven by the gleaming of that ring. No matter how far she
might have to wander even when released, seeking for him
through the boundless regions of the other world, she would,

Marcella Grace. 509

having all eternity to search for him, be able to make herself
known at last through the shining of that mystic circlet. Has not
gold, which neither crumbles like flesh, nor rusts like steel, a sort
of immortality among mouldering things, and would not the gleam
of this cling to her, even there, somehow P

She started, alarmed at her wandering fancies, suspicious and
watchful of her own sanity. Madness was waiting like a wolf to
devour her, she thought, to snatch her from his sight even before
death’s black curtain could descend to hide her from him. To keep
that wolf at bay she claimed sanctuary within the fiery circle of
the Redeemer’s ever-burning love on the Cross. By fire only
could she be saved from the monster. She must hold herself sane
and sound for a few hours longer so that in the last moment she
might be all present, body and soul, brains and heart, to stand with
him on the verge, and send her spirit forward with him.

And here the ghastly reality of common facts loomed black
and hideous from behind their spiritual veilings, and the form and
shape of what she was soon to see in its enormity of horror and
iniquity filled all her consciousness and stared straight in the eyes
of her despair.

A sudden cry arose in the street outside, and the wan
creature, swaying in the darkness like an already broken reed
lashed by storm, caught the sound with her fine ear, held her breath
involuntarily ‘to listen, and then pressed her hands to her head
that she might not take in the sound of which she guessed the
meaning.

It was the last call of the newspaper-sellers for that night,
trying to earn the price of bed and supper out of the morbid
curiosity of individuals eager to know the final arrangements for
the event of the morrow morning at Kilmainham.

Then Marcella’s weak body was seized with a long fit of shud-
dering, like the convulsion which sometimes comes before death ;
but which in this case was only the outward sign of the uttermost
torture which human nature can suffer through, and yet live.

‘When it became known that day in Dublin that the heiress of
Distresna had married the convict Kilmartin in prison, and on the
very eve of the last scene of his tragedy, a curious thrill ran
through all circles, and for the moment public feeling pierced that
dead wall of separation which rises up at once between the criminal
condemned to death and the outer living world to which he belongs
no more, and pitied the two suffering creatures who had joined
hands undauntedly under the very eye of the King of Terrors.

510, Marcella Grace.

This romantic incident, as it was called by the world, roused
again the wavering belief in Kilmartin’s innocence which had for
long dragged out a kind of cowardly existence in some minds, and
disposed them to question the conclusions of the jury who had
decided on the guilt of the condemned. It was remarked that the
girl who had wedded him on the very step of the scaffold must at
least be thoroughly convinced of his innocence. For of course
this strange act must have been done of her own wish. Nothing
could be gained to Kilmartin by a marriage with her now.

But in opposition to the few persons who are powerfully
attracted by the out-of-the way and romantic incidents of real
life, there are always larger numbers who feel an unconquerable
repulsion towards all erratic departures from the well-beaten puths
of conventional behaviour. There were not wanting many people
who held that Marcella had played a forward and unseemly part
all through this business, and that her thrusting herself into notice
again at so ghastly a moment, a moment which all right-minded
people would be glad to forget, showed her singularly wanting in
decency, not to say savir faire. She ought, once the convict’s
cell had closed on her miserable lover, to have disappeared from
public view and hidden her head in a kindly obscurity. In that
case human sympathy might have sought for her and found her,
after the memory of painful events in her life had a little passed
away. But now she had finally made a fiasco of her future,
Nobody would marry the widow of a murderer, or care to be
associated in any way with a woman who had deliberately assumed.
an accursed name.

It was thus that the strange wedding of the morning had
brought forcibly to minds that wanted to forget it, the date of the
death of the convict Kilmartin, and on that night when Marcella
closed her ears to the cries of the newspaper-boys and writhed
alone in her despair, the subject of the event of the next morning
was discussed by many lips. A ball was going forward at the
opposite side of the square, and in the pauses of the waltz the
startling romance was mentioned, and then forgotten again, as
the music stilled tongues and stirred feet; music which wafted
through open windows over the trees in the square crossed
Marcella’s agonised consciousness with an occasional blare of
sweet sounds, echoes from the Patrick’s Hall, as it seemed, where
Kilmartin had smiled delightedly at her without recognising her,
where she had first learned his name, and been permitted to stand
beside him on an equality of position.

Marcella Grace. 51

With those gales of melody came before her eyes the
glowing of flowers, and to her nostrils the odorous breath of them
on the air, and her hero’s grave yet smiling face once more
ascended out of the crowd on the staircase, and bent towards her
with an expression of warm pleasure and startled interest.

If anything can add one more touch to the hideousness of
hopeless calamity it is the flashing remembrance of former
unexpected joy with its deceitful surprises and unasked-for
promises. A new blast from the fiery furnace scorched this crea-
ture’s soul as the music swept through her, and made as if
to thrust her out into the howling wilderness of insanity from
which with open-eyed resolution she was struggling to withhold
herself.

A couple of waltzers stepped out on the balcony in front of
the festive house. Miss Eyre, the soft-eyed girl who had sympa-
thized with the sufferers in the Kilmartin affair from the first,
and Mr. Shine, the young barrister, who, being one of the counsel
for the prosecution, had fallen in love with his present companion
because she had instinctively taken the side of the defence.

“I will not dance any more,” said the girl, petulantly, “I
cannot get it out of my head. No one ought to have given a ball
to-night. I hate myself for being here. Oh, heavens, here are
the newspaper men coming screaming round the square. Think
of that poor creature listening to them over there across the
trees ! ”

“By Jove, I believe they are calling something new,” exclaimed
Mr. Shine, suddenly interrupting himself in his task of consoling
his gentle partner with such philosophic platitudes as a good-hearted
man could bring to mind on such an occasion. ‘‘ Just wait here
quietly for a few moments while I go and find out what they are
making such a rout about. If it is one of their usual falsehoods, I
will have them up in court for it.”

He returned presently, and took possession again of his seat
in the balcony.

“They have been telling the truth for once,” he said, “ Kil-
martin is reprieved. Don't look so white, or I shall have to leave-
you again to fetch you some water, or wine.”

“ Don’t, please, don’t. Tell me the particulars.”

“I don’t know thatit’s much to be rejoiced over, even by those.
most concerned. The sentence is commuted to penal servitude
for life.”

“ But the reason ?”

512 Marcella Grace.

“It seems that one of the informers died suddenly this after-
noon, and made some kind of wild statement before he expired.
No depositions were taken as there was not time, but two or three
witnesses have sworn that he exclaimed urgently that Kilmartin
was innocent.”

“But in that case ought not Kilmartin to be set free alto-

er P”

“There is the other informer, who had the longest and the
strongest tale to tell, and there is the powerful corroborative evi-
dence. I don’t believe myself that Kilmartin did it, but, allthings
considered, he was bound to be condemned. I am surprised that
even this occurrence has made any difference at head-quarters. It
is out of the usual course of procedure under the present stern
regime.”

At the same moment Father Daly was knocking at the door of
Marcella’s gloomy mansion. He had left her for only a short time,
with the promise to return at midnight and watch with her for a
few hours, waiting for the moment when they two might again be
admitted to the prisoner’s cell, not toleave him again until after the
final parting. The old man trembled with agitation as he waited
impatiently for the opening of the door, and his face was wet with
tears of which he was perhaps unconscious, or forgot to dry away.

Marcella, hearing the knock, which was to her ear as the tolling
of a knell, or the sound of stones falling on a coffin, gathered up
her shuddering limbs from the floor where she lay and made her
way down the staircase to meet this faithful friend of her tribu-
lation. At the foot of the last flight he was waiting for her, hear-
ing her coming.

“My dear,” he said, “where are you? I have turned almost
blind. Give meyour hand. Are you able to bear a little lighten-
ing of your cross, Marcella? Hush, child, there is a change for us.
He does not die. There is a reprieve —”

At the first hint of what was coming the shattered creature
staring at him with dry fixed eyes fell forward into his fatherly
arms; at the last words she slipped from them again without a
sound and lay as if stone dead across his feet.

Harcella Grace. 513

CHAPTER XXIII.

SEPARATION,

Tax remainder of that night was spent by Father Daly in dragging
her through an unexpected danger, in tiding her over a new
crisis, the sudden return of joy into veins from which it had been
with long and slow purgation torturingly expelled. He tried to
moderate her wild transports of delight, reminding her that this un-
looked-for boon did not mean freedom and happiness.

“But it is life, life! The sun will shine on his living face
at noon to-day. His eyes will open to-morrow morning, and the
next, and the next! His heart will be beating still this day week—
this day year. Oh, Father Daly—with life—what possibilities! I
cannot see any further than just this, yet. Now, I will not die,
neither. I must not die. Oh, Father Daly, do not let me die. I
am like a poor starved creature, am I not ? bound to drop into the
grave ina monthP That is what I was hoping for, praying for,
but now itis different, different. Oh, I must not die, I will not die.
Give me food to eat, anything to make me live and be strong.
For I have a great deal to do, Father Daly; I cannot remember
hat it is now; but I know I have a great deal before me to

lo.”

For many hours this rapture in the mere possession of his life
lasted. Her face altered again with wonderful quickness, the
pinched darkened features took their natural curves and colour,
her eyes lost their fevered lustre and grew soft and luminous with
happiness. On her way tothe convict’s cell she was bright, cheer-
ful, almost gay. She could not remember that a separation almost
as cruel as death, and in some ways more unendurable, was hanging
over their heads whom death had unexpectely failed to part at once
and for ever.

Kilmartin himself had realised more readily the questionable
nature of the boon that had been granted to him. He knew some-
thing of the horrors of a convict’s life, and it taxed all his courage
to meet it with fortitude. To see the face of his young wife smil-
ing at him, to think of his peaceful home upon the lake, to re-
member his plans and hopes for his people, and know that these must,
be lost and forgotten, shut out for the long span of an intolerable
lifetime behind prison walls by years and miles of time and dis-
tance,—all this staggered the spirit within him and made his

614 Marcella Grace.

heart quail when in his solitude he stood up and confronted the
truth.

‘Would it not have been easier to die P

His death would at least have set her free, given her the chance,
if not the certainty, of beginning a new life, even if many years
hence, even if in a new country, and under such new conditions as
she could not foresee. No such possibility was now before her.
Chained by a chain that could not be broken to one who could have
no part in her life, she would be like a living body bound toa
corpse. No freedom, no gradually dawning peace and joy would
ever belong to her until time and labour, having worn out the re-
sisting strength of his manhood, might crush him at last into a
felon’s grave.

It seemed to him now that he had been cruelly wrong in marry-
ing her, criminally weak in yielding to her pathetic prayer to be
allowed to belong more absolutely to his memory, and to have a
right to him recognised by the angels of heaven. Good God!
among what herds of demons must her right in him now be claimed.
‘What a horror she had taken into her young life. Overwhelmed
by these thoughts, Kilmartin looked back almost with regret on
the calm courage with which he had stood erect yesterday, looking
at a scaffold.

But when the door of his cell opened und he saw her face
radiant with joy shining before him, he forgot everything except
that it was sweet to be still in the same world with her. As his
wife wept in his arms, he felt that somehow or somewhere there
must be a future in store for them.

“Do not reproach me for looking gay,” she said ; “ do not ask
me to grieve any more. Not now, I cannot think of anything
but that you are here, instead of gone where I could not follow
you. There may be a terrible time coming ; I cannot see it yet.
I will not seo it, Bryan. Let me rest a little from suffering, just
looking at you, listening to you.”

“Dearest, I am ao selfish, I can think of nothing but that I
love you and that God has left me life.”

“Left us life, I should soon have followed you. But my
fear was that I should not die for a long time. And yet how could
I have thought of deserting your mother? And I have good
news for her. The doctor thinks that she may recover.”

“Thank heaven if there is hope for her.”

“I will take such perfect care of her, until—you come back to

”

us.

Harcela Grace. 515

“My darling, you must not think of that—there will be no
coming back. But you may come to see me,—sometimes.”

“No coming back? You coward! an this be the man
who was so ready for death and who would not quail an inch ?
Have you no hope in you, after all that has happened? If you
have not, no matter I have got enough for two.”

“Tt was easier to love, and leave you a widow than to leave
you a wife and yet no wife. Oh, this cruel ring which is to bind
you to that which is no better that a corpse, a living man
behind a prison wall ; this wicked ring, which is to rob your youth
of every hope, a sign that you are linked forever with a convict.
Would to God I had not been so weak as to be persuaded to put
it on your finger.”

“Ah, now indeed you are cruel. So you only pretended to
love me, you are sorry you are bound to me ; you wedded me hoping
toeseapefrom me? Then, sir, you might have kept your repent-
anee asecret from me. It would have been kinder not to rob me
of my foolish joy ——”

“ My love, your courage under this wrong I have done you is
breaking my heart.”

“ Then I must express it badly, or wrap it up in some repulsive
disguise, for if I could make you feel it as I feel it your heart
would to be the gladder for it. You would be thankful that I
have the comfort of this ring, the support it will give me, the
authority it will bestow on me, even the power it will confer
on me to take care of your people for you,—until you come,—
until you come.”

“T will hope to please you. I will believe anything you bid
me. My people will have a trusty steward over them, my poor
mother will have a faithful daughter by her side. But my darling
who ought to have a husband to take care of her ——”

“Has got one, thank you, and one who is quite to her taste ;
though you do not appear to think much of him.”

“ He would have been a loving and tender one, he would have
shielded her from every hurt. I think he would have been able to
make her happiness, if evil had not befallen him. As itis, he isonly
a millstone round her neck, a cross laid on her shoulders ——”

“ A great joy in her heart, a crown on he» head, a glory round
her life—how far shall we go on with it?” laughed Marcella, in-
terrupting him. “ Oh, my dear, you do not know me yet—but you
must try and believe in what you are to me. I tell you while you
are still in the world I cannot altogether mourn. I am too full of

Vou. x11. No. 148. 39

516 Hareella Grace.

the future which God must be getting ready for you. Why has
He spared your life now except for that future P while you are away
I shall live in it, and for it, and you will be happy too, knowing that
you are suffering like the souls in Purgatory, only kept away for
a time from the beautiful life that is waiting for you. It will be
such a lovely life, won't it, when we are together taking care of
the people at Inisheen? It will come soon, Bryan, it must come
soon. I will weary the heavens with my prayers till the truth
comes to light. And then the whole world will acknowledge my
martyr whom I have been glorifying.”

He allowed he to rave on in the fever of joy which the reaction
from the chills of death had brought upon her, and tried to hide
his own anguish which was in its sober senses and wide awake to
the reality of the parting that was at hand. He knew that soon
enough the sense of hopeless catastrophe would descend upon her
once more, and said to himself that he must store up his own
strength for the moment when hers should fail. He put asidethe
haunting thought that he was leaving her alone in the world, cut
off from all human sympathy by the curse of bearing a convict’s
name, and tried to believe, or to pretend to believe for the hour,
in the impossible future which she insisted on creating for him.
He knew very well that a convict who has narrowly escaped death
has not much further boon to hope for from justice, and he felt that
he could better bear to wear out his life in a prison cell than accept
freedom unless his innocence were fully established. All the un-
likelihoods which Marcella would not see were arrayed before his
eyes in their uncompromising actuality ; and yet he smiled with
her, talking lover’s talk, the sweetness of which sometimes be-
guiled him into forgetting wholly the terrible loneliness of the
waking which lay beyond the full living and loving of this short-
lived dream.

During the small space which lay between the date of the
commutation of his sentence and the departure of the convict for
Dartmoor prison she was with him all the time that prison rules
would permit, sometimes accompanied by Father Daly, sometimes
by Bridget, travelling back and forward through winter rain and
fog from the melancholy house in Merrion Square where his mother
eat reading imaginary letters from him all day long, and talking
about his travels, and congratulating herself continually that he
was safe at the other side of the world, away from the Fenians.
When she was not with him Marcella was waiting on Mrs. Kilmar-
tin, talking to her cheerfully about Bryan’s return, that return

Marcella Grace. 517

toward which her own heart was now set in hope with all the force
which her nature could muster ; or praying in the old church where
she had first begun to pray for him. As the hour for parting drew
near there were no signs about her of the setting in of that despair
which Bryan had feared to see, and he watched her with surprise
as her manner became more tranquil and her strength seemed to
strengthen, instead of vanishing before the anguish of parting like
a phantom in the light of day. He did not know with what passion
of earnestness she had prayed for that strength, with what fervour
she had asked for supernatural help to brace up her courage for
the separation. She would not weaken him in his cruelest moment
by her complaints, nor send him away overwhelmed by the thought
that he had left behind him a woman with a wretched life whose
moans and tears must haunt him in his prison cell and oppress him
more terribly than the wreck of his own future, the loss of his
liberty, or the unmerited condemnation of his fellow-men. Come
what might afterwards she would send him away with the warmth
of hopein his heart, with a little spot of blue breaking, though ever
so far away, through the black clouds on his horizon.

It was early day yet in both of their lives, and how many times
might not the weather change before night P

Till the very hour of the convict’s departure for Dartmoor she
kept her spirits wound up to this exalted pitch. It was arranged
that she and Father Daly should travel to England on the same day
and remain for some little time as near the prison as possible, see-
ing him as often as was admissible. The farewells were thus
deferred, and the idea of separation disguised and kept aloof.

Fortunately she was not allowed to see him prepared for de-
parture, the iron fetters fastened upon ankle and wrist by chains
that clanked as he walked to the black conveyance waiting for him
outside the prison door. As he glanced for one moment at the green
distances around Kilmainham the felon Kilmartin thought that
even a prison in Ireland might be sweeter than a prison elsewhere,
and asked himself should he ever look on an Irish fieldagain. One
more glimpse of Ireland, the bay, the Wicklow mountains
struggling through mist, and he was buried in the convict-ship, .
hurrying away from country, wife, mother, home, people, alike
from the happy past and the future that was to have been so
bright.

As soon as they were permitted to visit him Marcella and
Father Daly found him in his cell at Dartmoor, a grim stone
chamber with a small window, his surroundings a wooden bench

518 Marcella Grace.

for a bed, a small table, and a pitcher of water. He was dressed
in prison-dress, but he had not as yet settled down thoroughly in
this narrow stony space within which he was to wear out all the
years of his manhood. He kept walking about the few yards of
flagged floor like one who had been detained there by accident
and was impatient to get out, the place looking just such as a man
might, by chance, spend a bad quarter of an hour alone in, and
which he would remember uncomfortably for the rest of his
life. It was absolutely impossible to imagine Kilmartin, es
he stood, his eye full of fire and energy, his frame vigorous and
young, snared in this trap, caged in this hole till death should set
him free. Marcella could not believe that such was his fate,
though a sob caught her breath when she saw him standing there
solitary in his felon's clothes, already barred out from the world of
action and defrauded of the light of the sun.

Still she would not allow herself to break down. She had
brought him books, writing materials, flowers, though it was
winter, without asking how much of the comfort of these he would
be permitted to enjoy. During the short visit she persisted in
speaking as if his stay here must only be for a week, a fortnight,
at most a month. “ You can bear it for that little time, Bryan.
Soldiers have often to endure as much. And how you will enjoy
‘the comforts of home afterwards! And what a welcome the
people will give you! What visits I shall have to pay them all
when I go back, telling them how you look, and all about it!”

Bryan, who nursed no delusions, never contradicted her, spoke
no word to undeceive her, tried to look as if he shared her hopes
and expectations, but it taxed all his strength to restrain his own
grief, to conceal that wide-awake despair which possessed him as
the moment for the final separation drew near, and arrived.
Father Daly bade him good-bye first and waited outside for Marcella.

Kilmartin held her in his arms, and at last the half delirious
words of hope froze on the young wife's lips. She seemed to waken
suddenly out of a trance. Like one who has been dreaming sweetly
of home and sunshine, and is shaken up to confront howling
hurricane and shipwreck, she looked wildly round the pitiless stone
barriers and clung to his neck. In that moment she was terribly
assured that their hands were severed, that she was leaving him
there for life. But there was no more time for speech, not an
instant to undo the work she had struggled so hard to accomplish.
The madness in her soul could find no expression before he himself
had put her from him outside the door of his cell and the bolts
had grated and clanged behind her.

MMaroella Grace. 519

'Then Father Daly felt that the only way to save her reason
was to get her home at once, home to the wide moors and the
rolling waves, and all the soothing sights and sounds of nature
which, being associated with happier days, might win her round to
hope again after the present crisis should have passed.

She followed him meekly and passively, but with such a look of
silent despair in her face as made people turn to look at her where
she sat in the corner of a railway-carriage or steamer, staring
blankly before her, and seeing nothing but rigid stone walls built up
between her and the face of the heavens. When the journey
was at last at an end and Crane’s Castle reached, she was carried
up to her room and laid on her bed, the blinds were drawn
and the servants stepped about softly, Surely this was a dreary
house on the verge of the thundering Atlantic, under the shadow
of the hills; in one room a woman whose wits were gone with
sorrow, in another this crushed creature huddled on the bed, unable
to turn her face to the light of day.

The little home at Inisheen had been shut up and Mrs. Kil-
martin and her attendant had been removed to Crane’s Castle.
Miss O'Donovan remained with her friends in Dublin, feeling
unequal to the melancholy task of looking after so sad a household
as that at Distresna. Faithful Bridget managed as best she could,
hoping for the moment when the young mistress would open her
eyes again on the daily world and lift the terrible cloud a bit that
hung over the sombre dwelling. Father Daly came and went,
his hair somewhat whiter, and the wrinkles in his pathetic old face
deeper than on the day when we first made acquaintance with
him.

And every day the people from their cabins among the bogs
and mountains besieged the castle for news of Mr. Bryan, and of
their darling lady. They had a vivid understanding of the tragedy
that had been lived, and was yet to be lived through. Their
prayers and their u/u/us rose evening and morning in lonely places,
and filled the wide air seldom disturbed by other noise than the
roaring of the waves and the cries of sea-birds. Bare feet were
for ever on the tracks leading to and from homes and burrow-
ing places undiscoverable by all save those who Knew the way.
Marcella and Kilmartin had cared to know those ways and had
left the high roads of the world to find them out, and therefore
they were worshipped now in their sorrow by barefooted pilgrime
who knew no other paths through life than these seamy zigzags
that led along dreary flats and up to lonesome highlands,

( 520 )

FROM OUT THE DARKNESS.
1.

ITHANES for the violets! But in vain
‘They bear this message from a friend,
That nature wakens up to send

Fresh hopes, and blossoms forth again.

They tell me that the spring’s young green
Peeps gaily through the brown and dun:
They tell me that the smiling sun

Again through April tears is seen.

They eay, the time which young hearts love
Has come, when Hope’s exuberant glee
Laughs out for very joy to see

Bright green below, bright blue above.

They tell me this, the while I hear
‘The loving warblers of the trees
Scatter gay sonnets on the breeze,

To prove that life is bright and dear.

Then, too, the city’s ocean roar,
By soft winds soothed, speaks low and mild—
Such dream-fraught murmurs as a child

Will hear in sleep beside life's chore. -

But each glad sound, each winsome sight
Is dall’d and darkened at my door:
For I shall see the spring no more,

But grope through winter's life-long night.

The violets’ breath is like a sigh
From quiet homes of human woe;
For everywhere we come and go,

We tread them down or pass them by.

Then bring me violets, let their breath
With sorrow's wisdom teach to me
‘The lesson of humility,

“Sweet lowly life, a calm sweet death.

Darkling within my chamber walls
Bring me fresh violets, set them near;
Such fragrant sighs alone can cheer

A life on which no sunbeam falls,

From out the Darkness. 531

“Thanks, friend, your message lingering nigh
With violet breath embalms my loss,
For thus I learn beneath the cross
The sacred sweetness of a sigh.

n.

‘Yot think not that with banished light
“The promise of my life must die;
Or that my soul must henceforth lie

Imprison’d by my darkened sight,

For let each longed-for blossom cling,
A blighted bud, within my hand :—
Let pallid, wither’d leaflets stand

‘As though a curse had killed my spring :—

And let each fruit I hoped to bear
Down-dropp’d in folding earth be sunk,
And from this sere, rough-gnarled trunk

Let sunless failure ever tear

All tenderer offshoots:—yet I feel
From God such deeply rooted will,
As can give sap and fibre still

To make my woe serve other's weal.

From out the vigour of my heart
Strong, living beams may yet be hewn
Which, dried and hardened, may be strewn
To bridge some soul to nobler part.

Though maimed and blinded be my fate,
I will not sit and idly ory
For pity from the passers-by :
Bat limp and grope toward something great.

Though crushed to earth, my every breath
Shall writhe against my fierce despair,
I will not moon, for I must dare

To crawl on in the teeth of death.

Ay, should all psin and weakness blend
With life to suffer, none to grasp ;
‘My soul would hurl with desperate gasp
My body towards some noble end.

And till this clay beneath the sod
By heavy feet be firmly pressed,
I cannot pause to weep or reat,

For I must work the work of God.

522

From out the Darkness.

nu.

But Thou, my God, make strong mine arm;
Bless Thou my work :—bid Thou me speak
Thou art so strong, and I ao weak,

Alone, my work can only harm.

How can I work P—In long hard strife
All foes and fates I once warred down :—
Low-smitten now beneath God's frown,
Am I now dead P or is this life?

For I am blotted out from light,
And from my mangled heart are torn
The noblest hopes that man could mourn,

While on my soul too falls the night:

And in the darkness demons seem
To crown my holiest aims with dust :
Athwart my prayers with sneers they thrust
The broken fragments of my dream.

‘Yet I had never flinched to fling
Far from me all leas high desire,
That could not stand the flash and fire
Of my heart's worship for my King

Close fetter’d in an icy gloom,
To earth my soul now droops ao low,
That o'er my buried life there grow

‘The mouldering mosses of the tomb.

And yet I think that I could fold
All pain and peng in calm unmixed,
If once for all my will were fixed

Unto God's will with certain hold.

Then crush or kill, but teach me well
To love Thee, Christ, to hate all wrong,
And I will prove me true and strong
Up to the very gates of hell.

In this my sight, if blinder grown,
Ia blest:—I pass all others by :
No beauty hence can win mine eye,
O Christ! until I see thine own.

For Thee I work; for me one grace
Thy pity keeps, I know, in store,
For I shall see the spring once more,

‘When I shall look upon ‘Thy face.

April 28, 1884.

( 528 )

NOTES OF A SHORT TRIP TO SPAIN.

BY JOHN FALLON.

Part X.—Homewarp.

Hap any one told me, when leaving Ireland, that I would retarn
from Spain leaving a host of places unvisited, each of them well
deserving of a special pilgrimage, I should have had considerable
difficulty in believing him: yet here I am, rapidly rolliag north-
wards, all owing to the still increasing temperature, which begins
to make sight-seeing a toil instead of a pleasure. Spain isa country
so large, and so full of interest, that its different provinces afford
ample material for separate trips; and it would be Vandalism and
folly to visit any of them at a disadvantage. To me the places
unseen will be pleasures deferred; thus am I homeward bound,
much sooner than I projected, but more than content with the
little I have accomplished.

Central Spain is often described ae an “ elevated platedu,” a
“lofty table-land,” and by other words which leave on the mind
a vague idea of plains instead of mountains. Elevated the land
no doubt is, varying from two thousand four hundred to four
thousand five hundred feet above the sea; but, so far as the run
northward of Madrid is concerned, it is no more level than the
Snowdon district of North Wales, which it somewhat reminds one
of, in the first part of the journey, by the wildness of its features.
Scarcely an hour from Madrid, you are in the midst of the Sierra
de Guadarrama, bleak and savage beyond description. Huge
blocks of granite, many of them from twenty to thirty feet in
diameter and hundreds of tons in weight, lie strewn along the
steep slopes as if they had fallen from the sky. If ever the
Titans fought the gods, some such place as this must have been
their battle-ground ; or rather, it must have been some such sight
as this that first suggested the legend; and the wonder is, how
freshly fallen the ponderous masses look.

In the midst of such strange surroundings Philip II. reared
his Escurial, “eighth wonder of the world,” palace and burial-
vault, convent and college, all rolled into one. The vast pile
stands quite near the railway station, on the right hand side as
you travel northwards; it looks to be of grey granite, and is like
a huge barrack all perforated with windows like the portholes of

524 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

an old-fashioned man-of-war ; at each corner is a turret, and, in
the centre, a commanding dome. That the name of “ Escurial ”
is taken from the scoriae of old Roman mines still worked, is a
stereotyped piece of etymology. That it was reared by Philip II.
in votive thanks for the fruitless victory of St. Quentin that
opened his long reign, and built on the ground plan of a gridiron
because that battle was won on the feast of St. Lawrence, all that
is matter of history and general literature. But what art or magic
can explain the mystery of a man, who was noí a lunatic, selecting
such a site for such a work, and interning himself here for years
like a cloistered monk, while issuing orders to more than half the
world P

At intervals, as we advance, the welcome sight of pine-woods
meets the eye, showing, if needs be, that we are rising into
cooler regions of the atmosphere ; but too many of the trees, alas!
are marked for theaxe. And now, interspersed through the rocks,
are frequent bits of real verdure, with great brown goats grazing
innocently on them, then scampering off at the sight of our train.
On we go, whirling over viaducts that, Roman-fashion, span the
ravines arch over arch; then cutting through tunnelled headlands
or hugging their precipitous sides and looking down at the airy
depths beneath. My companions were three young Spaniards who
never stopped chatting and smoking alternate cigarettes; they
insisted on my joining in their conversation; I hope I was
intelligible; as for them, it was impossible for any one not to
understand them, speaking as they did with their fingers quite as
much as their lips. While thus advancing, night fell, rapidly
as usual; and again, as in the Sierra Moréna, a glorious thunder-
storm followed; the purple lightning was almost continuous; the
majestic thunder spoke through the hills, truly like the voice of
God; and soon large rain-drops came pattering down: to me,
after the recent days of simmering heat, they seemed like manna
from heaven.

It takes nearly twenty hours to get from Madrid to the French
frontier town of St. Jean de Luz; and the train passes, at about
equal intervals of time and distance, Avila, Valladolid, Burgos,
and Vittoria. How dearly would I have wished to break the
journey at the first and third of these! but the delay might have
involved missing the Pacific boat, which I had resolved to catch
at Bordeaux. So that Avila, medisval city of paramount attrac-
tions, and home of St. Theresa, the seraphio lyrist of divine love,
is only associated in my mind with an excellently seryed Spanish

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 525

supper, eaten with Spanish dignity and calm ; and Burgos, premier
capital of Old Castille, and home of the Cid, is to me only a fleet-
ing vision of tower and steeple, seen in the cool grey twilight of
morning, in a half-wakeful interval of sleep; an open carriage
was returning empty from the station ; I felt that I ought to bein
that carriage, instead of rolling remorselosaly away: but Burgos,
like the rest of places unvisited, will be to me a dream for the
future, and foremost on the list.

And now dismiss all thought of Titanic boulders and bleak
rocks, for we have got into a country still hilly, but all made up
of pastures and woodland, deliciously refreshing to the eye. The
Pyrenees are supposed to end at the corner of France, but the
mountain range continues westwards, into the Asturias and Galicia,
only under a new name and title. Approaching the southern slopes
of thislong range, nothing could be more charming than the small
Basque provinces of Aléva and Guipuscoa. Crops of standing
corn still far from ripe—flocks of white-woolled sheep wandering
in sweet liberty on an emerald sward—forests of dark-foliaged oak
and chesnut—such were the scenes that unfolded themselves, as
mists of genuine moisture rolled up the hills like shrouds before
the sun. One kingly tree towers in this district over all its asso-
ciates, with glossy foliage of darkest tint, ponderous boughs and
rough trunk; it bears lovely sprays of palest green blossom, but
1 failed to learn its name.

Before reaching the frontier, a little incident brought our train
to a halt: the carriage in which I was took fire, through some
over-heating of the fittings adjoining the axle. Not in the least
degree did this disconcert the calm officials; the tov combustible
vehicle was quietly detached and shunted; the connections were
restored, and off we went.

Fuentarabia looks brown and Moorish from across the bay
of Irun: both places evoke lively recollections of the Carlist war.
At Hendaya French soil is reached, and evinces itself in a change
of carriages, an examination of luggage, and a capital buffet, only
so noisy—but this just helps to make the night travellers shake
themselves wide-awake and gay. The Bidassoa, frontier stream
of historic associations, is crossed here. A little island, within
view of the bridge, was the favourite trysting ground for the kings
and diplomats of France and Spain to meet, as on neutral soil, to
plan and plot treaties and marriages, without the slightest reference
to the parties concerned: here Louis XI. met Henriqué IV. for
just such a double purpose: here Mazarin met the representative

526 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

of Philip IV., for just such another. And it was here that
Charles V. set Francis I. at liberty, in exchange for his two sons.
The island has been curiously called the “ isle of pheasants,” but
it is aleo known as the “ island of conferences,” a far better name
for such a place.

And now, with frontier crossed, the next station, just seven
miles off, is St. Jean de Luz, and I shake the honest hand of an
honest friend, and descend.

* . . .

St. Jean de Luz is a small place, but full of historic associations.
Not to go further back, the marriage just referred to as negotiated
by Mazarin in the “isle of pheasants,” was celebrated here: the
parties concerned were no less than Maria Theresa of Spain and
the young “Grand Monarque” himself. The large houses in
which both lodged, preparatory to the occasion, are still in perfect
preservation, and inhabited. That which was honoured by the
presence of Louis XIV. has an oak staircase, kept carefully as he
stepped on it, and dark with age. It reminds one a little of that
in the “ Posada de la Sancta Hermandad,” at Toledo.

The parish church in which the marriage was solemnized is
one of the quaintest I have ever seen. In span it is much wider
than any cathedral that I know of, being fully sixty feet in the
clear, but of course nof stone-vaulted. Three galleries, one over
another, of time-darkened oak, run along its rectangular sides.
‘To these galleries the lords of creation must climb to pray; while
their wives and mothers, daughters and aunts, calmly send up their
ejaculations from the pavement below. Suspended from the lofty
roof, like a sanctuary lamp, is a miniature ship full-rigged, large
enough to float a man or two ; this I donot mention as exceptional,
for, in almost every seaport along the French coast, is found some
such emblem in the parish church, betokening the devotion of the
mariner to " Mary, star of the sea.”

As at other sea-sides, half the natives have an amphibious look.
They join the sea from inherited taste, or to avoid the hateful
military conscription, which stares them at every turn. Brave to
the tips. of their fingers and toes, they detest enforced soldiering,
and, to shun it, they face the horrors of the North Pole, and of
Cape Horn. All wear the “ berret ” cap, a sort of flattened glena-
geary—also a blue sash round the waist—and they are a fine broad-
chested type of men, with straight features and open countenances,
and the frank ennobling air of freedom in every turn.

A sculptor would say the women are a splendidly built race,

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 527

with classic features, and more than classic height. A regiment
of lifeguards might easily be enrolled from amongst the tall
Amazons whom I saw assembled in the fair-green to-day, driving ,
their fathers’ teams all unconsciously. Their cattle resemble the
Estremadura breed, which used to frighten our Dublin salesmasters
into fits ere now—fawn-coloured, dark nosed, large-footed ; but
with horns less wide-spreading, and beef on every joint. Prizes
had been awarded to the best matched teams, and it was a pleasure
to see them driven, or rather led, by those rustic daughters of
noble pedigree, each walking in front of her quadrupeds, and
quickening their pace, or bringing them to a stand-still, by one
wave of her spiked wand, or one glance of her eyes. Blue is the
costume of all, with a white handkerchief on the shoulders, and
another on the head: and truth compels me to add, many wear a
slight moustache, just enough to qualify them for court beauties,
had they lived in the days of Charles II., and been immortalised
by Sir Peter Lely.

They all speak French, I believe; but it is not their language :
Basque is their national tongue, and I can vouch that it sounds
sweet and musical to the ear. Scholars agree that it is no patois,
but as distinctive from other European languages as the dead
Etruscan, or the living Magyar. Older than Latin, or Greek, or
Sanscrit, it allows no affinity with any of them, or with any rude
Teutonic dialect of the savage north, The legend is that Adam
spoke it; Lucifer tried to learn it, and failed ; it was the language
of the masons of Babel before the confusion of tongues. Asa
matter of fact, the friend, with whom it was my privilege to walk,
spoke it fluently, and it was interesting to observe the respectful
freedom with which the brave peasants discussed with him the
awards of the cattle show judges. In some remote time, a king of
Castille, or Navarre, whom their ancestors had served right loyally,
unable to repay them in kind, adopted the bright expedient of
ennobling them all, and you can discern in the present genera-
tion, peasants as they are, that they know what is due to themselves,
and to you.

Note, they were never conquered ; the Roman she-wolf never
flaunted on their ramparts. Virgil compared them to midnight rob-
bers, and to wolves; but admitted them to be untamed, and, to keep
them off, recommended the feeding of Molossian bloodhounds :

“ Nunquam custodibus illis
“ Noctaroum stabulis furem, incursusque luporum,
“« Aut impacatos a tergo horrebis Iberos.”

528 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

King Recared, the Gothic monarch who rebuilt the cathedral
of Toledo in the sixth century, used to despatch his troops against
these Cantabrian highlanders, as Cetywayo in our own days sent
out his braves, just to whet their spears and learn fighting. The
Bidassoa, boundary between two kingdoms, has made no severance
in their language or character ; they are still Basques on both sides
of the line, and look as if they would remain so for a considerable
time yet.

I saw a grand match of court tennis between the champions of
two opposite parishes, two on each side. It is a game that calls
into play all the qualities of strength, agility, and lightning
quickness of eye that a man can possess. It resembles rackets,
only the balls are much larger, and each man, instead of a battle-
dore, has a wooden scoop strapped to his right hand, and with this
he sends the heavy ball in with terrific force against the front wall.
There are nets and lines along the ceiling and side walls, and,
according as the ball gets within these, it is over or under, in or
out. Such was the former game of kings and nobles, in the great
old days when royalty was bound to prove its prcwesa, days which
I fear are gone for ever.

Most of the ancient houses are gabled on the street-face, as in
many other places, from Nuremberg to Amsterdam. But here the
peculiarity is that the roofs, instead of being high-pitched, are of
immense span, and spread paternally over the whole wide frontage
of the dwellings ; some roofs, more ambitious still, are not content
without covering two entire houses under their wide embrace,
like two faces under a hood. I can now understand how the parish
church was roofed, although probably wider than any cathedral in
Christendom.

So conservative of ancient institutions is St. Jean de Luz that
Cibourre, a mere suburb on the other side of the river Nivelle,
and perfectly connected by a bridge, preserves nevertheless its
separate municipality, its separate mayor and corporation, &c., Óe.
Just as if Dublin north and south had opposition lord mayors and
town councillors, and opposition debates, to fill the daily papers,

and drive quiet people to seek for some halcyon peace west of the '

Shannon or north of the Boyne. Crossing over to this indepen-
dent municipality, I found a perfect alaméda, lined with the ortho-
dox poplars, and leading straight to the coast. Here the view is
of bluff headlands, Atlantic-washed, bare and defiant, fitting
bulwarks against the ocean, which breaks ever against them in

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 529

whitened spray. This walk is the favourite resort of Spanish
hidalgoes, who come here during the recess of the Cortéz, and
recreate themselves planning the fusion of parties, and the upset
of a ministry, while merely seeming to inhale the delicious breezes,
or coolly whifing their cigarettes. To them the change must
indeed be delightful; I found the thermometer here down to 67°,
,and a complaint of constant rain; at Madrid the temperature
varied from 80° to 95°, and the prayer was for a little moisture.
Thus does kind nature vary her gifts from place to place.
. . . . .

From 8t. Jean de Luz the railway to Bordeaux passes Biarritz,
and Bayonne, then runs through the “ pays des landes.” Is your
imagination of the latter that of a vast sandy plain, only held
together by a little bent grass, with a few flocks of hungry sheep
seeking for pasturage on its scanty herbage? Do you picture the
guardians of these flocks striding about on stilts like giant spectres,
to get an advantageous view of their stray ones from the vantage
ground of their tall leg-appendages? Such had been my idea and
expectation, I tell you frankly ; founded probably on some child-
hood stories, which were true in the prehistoric period, and until
some recent date, when modern improvers remodelled the face of
the land; foremost amongst those improvers was Louis Napoleon.
At present the scene is of pine woods alternating with vorn-crops ;
and, for hundreds of yards, almost for miles, along the line, piles
of timber, cut to the exact length for sleepers, and saturated with
some preparation of copper to make them almost everlasting, are
spread, or rather built, in readiness for transport; those piles
represent the judicious thinning of the, supposed barren waste ;
hence they will go to distant places, perhaps to England, which is
fast becoming tributary to all the world for most of its necessary
wants,

Bordeaux, ancient capital of Guienne and Aquitaine, and for
three centuries a British possession, is a town of straight and wide
streets, lofty and wealthy-looking houses; at least the drive from
the railway station to the quays passes through the modern quarters,
which are as 1 describe. One sees the “ place des quinconces,”
with its lofty pair of rostral columns, where formerly stood the
Bastille of the city—for Bordeaux had its supreme law courts, and
its Bastille, and a sort of servile parliament of its own, until near
the close of the last century. Its present boast is that it possesses
the largest theatre and the finest bridge in France, and the grandest
line of quays in Europe; along these quays ships from every lati-

530 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

tude ride at anchor, and exchange the produce of every clime for
the tempting vintage of Medoc.

Can any one explain why, in a civilised land, a river, after
receiving a tributary, assumes a new name, which has no affinity
either with itself or its confluent? ... Yet here we have the
Garonne, enriched by the Dordogne, suddenly becoming the
Gironde, and thus flowing majestically into the sea, wide as the,
Danube, and with vineyards to the water's edge.

In or near the tongue of land formed by the two confluents was
fought, early in the eighth century, the famous battle between
Eudes of Aquitaine, and the Moorieh hosts led on by Abderrahman
(the Emir, not the founder of the Caliphate of Cordova). On this
occasion Abderrahman gave Eudes such a beating that “ God alone
could count the number of the slain;” then did the victor sack
and plunder Bordeaux ; and thence, foolhardy, he went on, till he
met more than his match in Charles Martel, whose sledge-hammer
blows and generalship put an end for all time to any further
Moorish invasion of France.

From the quays of Bordeaux I steamed down the river to
Pauillac, to be in readiness for the big steamer, hourly expected
from the south. As regards the picturesque, I would place the
Gironde rather low; but as a navigable river, it ranks among the
grandest I have ever seen. The vineyards that stud or clothe the
hills add no feature of beauty or of grandeur, but each hasa name
anda reputation more or less world-wide. One is Chateau Leoville;
another is Chateau La Rose; a third is Chateau Margaux; a
fourth is Chateau Lafitte; of course I only mention the well-
known names. The head of the French Rothschilds owns the
Lafitte vineyard, and some of his spare nectar recently went for
the neat little item of five pounds sterling per bottle. The
peculiarity about these Medoc vineyards is that they vary so much
from one to auother. You pass from the vintage of the gods to a
stuff unfit for clowns, and next door it is a gravel that will scarcely
graze a goat ; and yet the pebbly soil is all alike to the eye.

Pauillac itself, metropolitan centre of this juicy land, is not a
lively place to spend a night in; neither is the landscape, when you
sally out in the morning, by any means exhilarating. Boardings
everywhere along the roadsides; those boardings armed at top
with spikes, and nails, and uninviting broken glass. From inside
you hear the ominous grumbling of mastiffs, perhaps the lineal
descendants of those Molossian bloodhounds that Virgil recom-
mended, as against the Basques of his day. What matters it to

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 531

your thirsty soul that the vineyard within may be worth a hundred
or a thousand pounds an acre, or not worth a dollar? To your
mortal eyes it is an enclosure, and nothing more.

The negative part of this picture, if it be not all negative, is
that the thrifty people cannot afford themselves the luxury of a
single blade of grass, even to feed a cow. How their infants fare
is a mystery, for milk is an imported luxury, brought by rail and
steamer from afar. When I asked for “café au lait” at breakfast,
the answer was: “ Hélas ! Monsieur, du lait! nous n’en avons plus.
Nous en avions deux litres ce matin—mais une famille Anglaise est
arriveé avec tant d’enfants—o'est tout fini—les enfants ont tout
pris!” This, in the principal sea-side hotel of Pauillac, where
grape-juice of any chateau can be had by the gallon! Truly the
vine is the cow of this district . .. And yet the precious vine-soil
ends as abruptly as it began; pinewoods and heather almost flap
against the vineyards of millionaires.

But all in due time the small tender rings its loud bell for
passengers; the big ship has been sighted, and is swinging round
to the ebbing tide. So good-bye to Pauillac and Europe, and
three cheers for the sea.

* * . . .

Our ship is just completing a prosperous voyage from the coasts
of Peru and Ohili, round by the straits of Magellan, Montevideo,
Rio, and Lisbon. At the latter port it was warned off under
penalty of quarantine, because it had touched at the previous one ;
but the Bordeaux officers, less apprehensive of yellow fever,
allowed those who wished to land and rush off to Paris, which
seems the focus and centre of gravitation for most part of mankind.
The crew consists of blue jackets, all natives of “Great Britain
and Ireland,” as Lord Miltown would say. No lascar sailors, with
turban, sash, and bare feet-—no Nubian firemen, with heads like
cannon balls—no stewards from Goa, with Portyguese features,
complexion and air—but British sailors all, and of the usual type,
weather-beaten and reliable-looking. The captain is an Ulster-
man, and a gentleman all over—the young doctor is also an Irish-
man—so are several of the crew. One was a porter of Trinity
College; probably his bones are as safe here as among the under-
grads of Alma Mater. Another is a distinguished steeplechase
rider on the Irish turf, only suspended for a couple of years for
too well obeying his employer's instructions and pulling his horse.
Deprived for a time of the luxury of risking his neck over the
stiff banks of his native home, he consoles himeslf with the shanoos

Vou. xt, No. 148.

532 Notes of a Short Trip to Spain.

and excitement of a little life at sea, and makes a most excellent
steward.

The passengers, for the most part, are men who left England
years ago, with light hearts and lighter purses, and who have
worked as people do who voluntarily undergo exile for wealth’s
sake. They are now returning more or less enriched, but also more
or less dispirited, uncertain what real friends will meet them, and
what manner will be the greeting. Compared with the military
and civil service men of the P. and O. boats, they have, not exactly
a buccaneer look, but a hardened air, like men accustomed to carry
loaded revolvers, and ready to usethem. Two of those who landed
at Pauillac wanted to fight a duel before reaching Lisbon, but the
little incident was nipped in the bud. It is to be hoped the fates
did not throw them into the same hotel or railway-carriage on
Gallic soil.

The vessel had steered through the straits of Magellan a few
short weeks before, just when merciless winter was setting in there—
lamps all lighted before dinner—mufflers and overcoats in general
demand—stoves the sole centres of attraction. And now, after
that short interval, our way-worn passengers are rejoicing in the
glorious length of summer days, and have already had almost an
entire month of sunshine. Such is modern travelling.

Amongst the contingent who joined at Bordeaux was the clergy-
man of the English church at Pau, a fine old man, hale, hearty,
and most intelligent, but by no means welcome to the sailors. Had
another of his cloth appeared, those enlightened mariners would
have forecasted squalls, and all manner of evil fortune: when they
thoroughly ascertained that he was really single, they calmed down
and soon became reconciled to his genial presence. It was Sunday
evening, and, as night drew on, the old gentleman was asked to
preside at prayers in the saloon. A lovely hymn was sung, which
the second offiger accompanied on the piano; then the old man
spoke, delivering a brief address, not without thankful reference
to the charming weather on this first night in the Bay of Biscay.
This I was afterwards told, for all had gone down, except your
friend, and I could hear the voice, but not the words. Then
another hymn was sung, the trained voices of the crew joining in
parte. To me, svlitary pilgrim on the deserted deck, the strains
seemed surpassingly lovely, as true music ever does at sea. . There
was much, of course, in the surroundings: the sun had gone down
behind a bank of ruby clouds, which seemed still on fire while the
sea and sky darkened, and a spelt of calm was on both, while we
made noiseless head-way through the phosphorescent waters.

Notes of a Short Trip to Spain. 538

The second day out was quite different from this; the sea was
all flecked with foam, and heaving angrily, and the spray ran along
its surface like dust. We hugged the monotonous French coast
till Ushant was before us, then France faded in the distance.

On the morning of the third day, it was Cornwall, then Wales,
that was in view on one side, and dear old Wicklow on the other.
The “lizard,” the “wolf,” the “ mouse,” the “lamb”... such,
as well as I can remember, are the graceful names by which Jack
Tar has christened the southern landmarks of his island home.
In the afternoon Snowdon and her satellite peaks presented them-
selves in ever-changing groups. Then the vessel steered right under
the cliffs of Holy Island, sanctified in former days by Celtic hermits,
known now only through its packet-station of Holyhead. Great
caves undermine the beetling precipices under the lighthouse of
the “South Stack ;” myriads of gulls keep swarming and flutter-
ing in and out of these caves, and cawing their dull chant evermore.
One of these caves has been ‘appropriately called “ Parliament
House” from the confusing shrieks of the birds that frequent it.
Those birds are all sacred, because, when thick weather makes
lights unavailing, and fog-horn and fog-bell are equally drowned
in the louder shout of the storm-wind, high in air they bravely
bring to the mariner timely warning of the iron-bound coast he is
approaching.

Rounding “Great Orme’s Head,” the journey’s end is con-
sidered accomplished ; and accordingly the crew treat us to an
amateur concert of Christy Minstrels, with bones and blackened
faces, striped coate, grey hats and lengthened boots, all in perfect
fashion, and perfectly done. By far the best performer was the
ex-steeplechase rider, who will probably be in the first flight at
Punchestown next season, and will remember his two years of
suspension merely as a cooling interlude in his chequered life.

For miles, as the brave ship works up the Mersey broadside on,
the darkening coast is fringed with straight lines of light: they
are like an illumination, and as such I accept them, to celebrate
my own joyous return.

And now, te end these too lengthy notes: written for favoured
eyes, with a running pen; private when taken, and intended to
remain so for ever—if your eyes have followed them, I would ask
you to imagine that you have been for the time being as part of
the family circle; thereby will you sit disarmed as a critic...
With this understanding I wish you farewell, and again would
say with the Spaniards:

“Vaya USTE con Dios.”

€534.)

THE LORD’S PITY.
A Sonnet in Dialogue.

BY EVELYN PYNE.

Sinner,
Lord, I am alone, athirst, afraid!

Christ.

Didst thou not smite me, till I sorrowing went P
Sinner.

Love spake so sweet, and looked so innocent !
Christ.

And thou, denying me, his voice obeyed P
Sinner.

‘Yeu, Lord, I did, so am I sore dismayed.
Christ.

Hath love no comfort, no sweet message sent P
Sinner,

He loves the sinner, loathes the penitent !
Christ.

How should I help thee, whom thou hast betrayed ?
Sinner.

Dear Lord, I know not, yet I dare to pray.
Christ.

For what? The feast of faithless love again F
Sinner.

Ah no! Thy bleased ed presence at my side!

‘My child, thou hast ve“ on | the cross I stay!
Sinner.

Belovad! and Ismote Theo in Thy pain!
Che ist.

‘To win thy pardon, was I crucitied !

( 585)

DR. RICARDS ON THE CATHOLIC RULE OF FAITH.*

r | are need there is at the present day for what we may designate
a Popular Catholic Literature cannot be easily exaggerated,
and certainly has not been exaggerated by Dr. Barry in his admir-
able article in the Dublin Review for July, 1885, or in his recent
contributions to the Tablet newspaper. This need is increasing
and becoming more and more pressing every day. The enemies
of the church are exceedingly active, and threaten, if Catholics
do not exert themselves more, to all but monopolise the literary
market. Popular books of every description are daily pouring
from Protestant and infidel sources, admirable, at least many of
them, for their style and for the attractive and artistic manner in
which they are brought out, while the works of a popular charac-
ter that come from Catholic pens are comparatively few and are
not, unhappily, as a rule, over-attractive either for their style or
their get-up. We say comparatively and as a rule advisedly, for
we have no wish to minimise or despise the excellent work already
done by Catholics, or to compare for an instant their logic or their
matter with that of non-Catholic writers. Our point is this. The
literary taste of the age is sickly and fastidious. Plain solid food,
placed before it in its plainness and solidity, it will not have.
Whatever food it accepts, whether solid, or not, must be spiced
and seasoned with the particular spice and seasoning it desires,
else it will reject it. Now, though we know that the food offered
by Catholic writers is solid and wholesome, if taken and digested,
while that presented by non-Catholic writers is as decidedly only
& temporary stimulant and unwholesome, yet the one is bought
up at a fabulous rate, while the other is turned from with
loathing. The result is or soon will be, if care is not
taken, that all, old and young, will have been so poisoned and
starved that the remedy will be all but useless even if it comes.
Neither can the blame be thrown entirely on the fact that Catho-
lics are precluded from treating of subjects which owe their popu-
larity chiefly to their novelty. This is true to a considerable
° Aletheia; or, the Outspoken Truth on the All-important Question of
Divine Authoritative Teaching: An Exposition of the Catholic Rule of
Faith, &c., &c. By the Right Rev. J.D, Ricards, D.D., Bishop of Retimo,
and Vicar-Apostolic of the Eastern Vicariate of the Oape Colony. Benziger
Brothers, New York: Dublin, Gill & Son.

536 Dr, Ricards on the Catholic Rule of Faith.

extent, yet it is by no means sufficient to account for the whole of
the evil. The most old-world traths are capable of being treated
in a novel way, and in competent hands may be made to vie with
the most modern fiction in interest. Truth has an attraction for
every human mind greater than any mere theory or fiction can
have even independently of the way in which it may be told, for
truth is the connatural object of the mind. Men may be found
to deny or conceal the effect of truth on their minds and consciences,
but of this we may be certain, that if these very men can be brought
to listen to truth, its effect it will produce upon them, however
much they may try to conceal it.

Hence every Catholic writer, who evinces aptitude and willing-
ness to meet the crying evil of our times of which we have just
spoken by boldly proclaiming the truth, merits the warmest
encouragement and support. Hence it is that with all our hearts
we welcome such works as “Aletheia” from the pen of Dr.
Ricards. Urged by the same motives as at present we gave some
months ago a hearty welcome to another work from the same
zealous pen, “Catholic Christianity and Modern Unbelief.”

The object and scope of these works needs to be clearly under-
stood that the works themselves may be judged of and appreciated
as they deserve. To judge of them by a false standard would, it
is needless to observe, be most unfair. Now, Dr. Ricards has
been at pains to clearly set forth his object in the preface
of both his works, but more especially in that of the former.
He does not pretend to give treatises laden. with learning and
erudition on the questions on which he undertakes to write,
nor in any sense to exhaust his subject. What he does
pretend to do is to give a true, brief, and correct statement
of Catholic doctrine, carefully separating it from the erroneous
notions prevalent of what that doctrine is, and contrasting it with
the various errors opposed to it. This, further, he undertakes to
do in a style which, if not positively attractive by its polish, will
at least have nothing which, as far as in him lies and consistently
with the truths he has got to enunciate, will in any degree be
repulsive to the prevailing taste.

Now, at the present day, when almost everyone can read and
does read, it is obvious that there are several classes of readers, for
each of which a different standard of reading is required. The
class to whom Dr. Ricards primarily addresses himself is composed
chiefly of those, whether Catholics or non-Catholics, to whom a
little learning is proving a dangerous thing. The world is becoming

Dr. Ricards on the Catholic Rule of Faith. 537

overrun by a horde of freethinking scientists—for your true
ecientist is not and cannot be a freethinker—men who undertake
to overthrow the Catholio religion, though they have proved them-
selves utterly ignorant of the merest outlines of the great economy
of Catholicity. Catholicity they have condemned unheard in its
own defence, or, what is worse, they have condemned as Catholi-
city what is but the sorriest caricature of it. Many of these men
are far from possessing even ordinary gifts of mind, but there are
likewise many among them ‘highly gifted by nature, who have
had in addition every rare educational advantages. These men
pose as leaders and undertake to lead their followers somewhither
or nowhither. The masses being already robbed of all rational
belief, thanks to Protestantism, and being taught to look on Catho-
licity as the great enemy of humanity—the very antichrist of our
race—are prepared to listen to the boldest speculation and theorising,
particularly if it is in favour of larger licence, and so the evil goes
on and widens. The speculators feed the imaginations, not the
minds and hearts of the crowd, and the crowd in return supply
the stomachs of the speculators with “corn, and oil, and wine.”
This is the evil which Dr. Ricards would fain, as far as is in
his power, put a stop to. And he would do so by raising his voice
and addressing in strong, and earnest, and trenchant words the
duped multitude. He knows that vast numbers are wandering out-
side the Church because they have never known it as it is, that
many blaspheme it not knowing what they do, The leaders he
does not so much consider in his writings, though if they could
be induced to consider earnestly and ponder over his words, even
they would find therein a light new, and strange, and kindly. It
is to be feared, however, that there would be but small use in
trying to convert such men as Spencer, and Harrison, and Huxley,
and Littledale, and Bradlaugh, and the American Bob Ingersoll.
At all events a book written specially to suit their case were mere
waste paper for the vast majority. It should pursue them through
every species of fallacy, and quibbling, and lying, and go into
details whither the bulk of readers either could not or would not
follow. This kind of work Dr. Ricards is inclined to leave to
others, and would devote his pen to showing to the duped and
ignorant both what true Catholicity means and how absurd and
grotesque are the errors opposed to it when stripped of their vague-
ness and despoiled of their tinsel. Neither is he content to do so
briefly or superficially, or by the use of rhetoric alone. The readers
for whom he writes are many of them men of good natural parts,

538 Dr. Ricards on the Catholic Rule of Faith.

and honest if misled minds—men who can understand the force of
a fact and the point of anargument. Facts and arguments accord-
ingly Dr. Ricards gives in abundance, and he states them fairly
and honestly. Indeed, this is one of the leading characteristics of
his writing. No one, as we have said elsewhere, can read ten pages
of his book without feeling satisfied that he is in contact with a
mind sincerely earnest and honest.

Following out his idea of how good might be done and the
progress of infidelity stayed, Dr. Ricards gave to the world some
six or eight months ago his first work, “ Catholic Christianity and
Modern Unbelief,’” a work destined to have an almost unprece-
dentedly rapid sale. To this work he has now added another, that
which at present lies before us, and which forms an admirable
supplement and sequel to the former, written in the same vigorous
style and uncompromising strain. His present subject is “ The
Catholic Rule of Faith, with a full Explanation of the whole Ques-
tion of Infallibility and Application of the Principles tothe Develop-
ment of Catholic Doctrine, according to the needs of the times.”
In the entire round of controversed questions there is clearly no
other of such paramount importance as this. For if it be once
shown from Scripture and tradition that Christ established a visible
infallible Church, and that the Roman Pontiff is the visible infal-
lible Head of that Church, all controversy with Protestants is
necessarily at anend. The same is to be said of infidels, if the
Divine authorship and inspiration of Scripture is proved, a question
with which Dr. Ricards had already dealt in “ Catholic Christianity
and Modern Unbelief.”

‘We do not, as we have already explained, stop to consider
whether Dr. Ricarde’ works are calculated to silence and convince
the leaders of Protestantism and infidelity. This is not their
primary object. What they are decidedly in our judgment calcu- ”
lated to do is to awaken the dupes and victims of these men to a
lively sense of the fact that Catholicity is neither so absurd nor eo
effete as it is confidently represented to them to be, that not only
is much to be said in its favour even in the full light of modern
discoveries, but that the balance of proof is altogether on its side.
H Dr. Ricards proves thus much to doubting and perplexed minds,
and we believe his works are eminently calculated to do so, he has
done a mighty work of zeal, and one which if followed up must
end in the happiest results. He has given a lead and pointed out
a road which we believe Catholic polemical writers would do well
to follow in the future —the road of securing a hearing for Catholic

iDr. Ricards on the Catholic Rule of Fuith. 539

truth at any cost of trouble or of condescension to prevailing
tastes.

There is one notable feature in Dr. Ricard’s work which we
cannot allow to pass without at least a word of notice—the zealous
freedom with which he attacks and lashes the religious follies and
foibles of the age, exhibiting them, like another Paul, in their
true colours, and yet in a manner which could come only from
fatherly apostolic zeal for the welfare and safety of children.

“*No,’ I fancy I hear them exclaim, ‘it is preferable to nerve ourselves, and
look calmly on the awful future, than bear the utter renunciation of all that
makes life dear and charming. And after all, perhaps it is not quite ao danger-
ous a8 conscience telle us to trifle with the Divine appointments; and who
mows but we may find a plan whereby we can at the same time serve a merci-
fal God and gratify our own spirit of independence, and those tastes and inclina~
tions which are essential to our happiness as human beings? Surely there must
be some way by which we can safely put aside this “ humble obedience to the
Faith ” and this “foolishness” of Oatholic teaching that excites our honest
loathing and contempt.’

“What shall I say to souls thus so sorely tried? Shall I attempt to argue
with them and point out how unreasonable and unfounded are their prejudices
against Catholic doctrine and Catholic practices and worship ?

“I know it would be vain hope to cast inthis way even one gleam of light
‘on this dark sea of troubles. Of course in picturing to myself these severe
temptations to proud human nature, which may all be summed up in the words
“the pride of life,’ and the mental struggles of those who suffer under this
most dangerous of all earthly temptations that war against the acquisition of
Life Eternal, I do not for a moment set before me a class of Christians who are
altogether epoiled for serious thought by inordinate and constant frivolity. ‘The
case of such as these is, I fear, utterly hopeless, An angel from heaven might
perhaps by a smart brush of his wing, or the vivid suggestion of an eternity of
misery, startle them from their fascination; but the plain and homely words of
a minister of the Gospel—‘ the foolishness of our preaching '— if it is heeded at
all, can only divert such as these.”

The present work is brought out in the same admirable style
as its predecessor, and is a credit to the firm of Benziger Brothers.
D.8.

(040)

RELICS OF “A CERTAIN PROFESSOR.”

Parr II.

Tue last of Father Joseph Farrell’s letters that we quoted was a
letter of consolation for the death of one who had lived along and
useful life. The next was addressed to a mother who had lost a
peculiarly attractive and graceful little girl of three or four years
of age, whose exquisite portrait haunts the memory even of one
who had hardly known the child in life.

“I was so shocked and pained when I took up the paper and saw that poor
little ——— was taken from you. I wish I could say anything to comfort
you in the great sorrow that God has sent you. It ts a greateorrow. A child
just at that age takes hold on one—just beginning to grow into an individual,
with its own little ways and its own little character. However, there is no
great use in words. I need not tell you that it is only from supernatural sources
—fortunately so accessible to all of us—that real comfort comes in times like
these. I hope God will give you grace and strength to bear the cross. The
bright eide—to a cross there always isa bright side—the bright side is that it
ought to be a great consolation to parents to be so sure that one dear saint in
heaven is so specially interested in their well-being. ——— will do many &
good service to her friends on earth.”

After a visit of condolence Father Farrell writes again to the
afflicted mother :—

“ Thope you have been faithful to the resolutions you made, and that you hava
settled down to the performance of the many happy duties which God hus
given you todo. If there is any happiness in this world, it is only to be had
in that way. You have been constantly in my thoughtsand in my poor prayers
since I saw you. I hope you will make all possible profit out of your great cross.
It is ao great that it would be a pity to lose any of it.

“It is well for you just now to have so many people to care for and to look
after. It will do you good. You cannot expect to have a very happy Christmas.
That is not in our power, but it rests with ourselves to have a holy one—and
that is better. I think the sooner you resume your ordinary life the better—
I mean, as regards going out, seeing visitors, &c. Above all things do not make
a luxury of grief, as many people unconsciously do.”

Of the next letter that our choice falls upon, we give all
except a phrase or two.

“TI took advantage of your kind suggestion, and waited till now to write.
You said I ought to wait till I should have something to write about; but, if
I waited ao long, I fear I should have to wait a long time. Of course nothing

Belica of “A Certain Professor.” 641

happened since. In truth, the blessedness of this little place is that nothing
ever seems to happen. In a great feeling of loneliness I have been paying for
my lotus-eating at « However, I do not grudge the price.

“TI am better. I have got quite into harness again, and feel all the better
for it, There is not much to be done just now; and it is fortunate, for I find
my strength returning very slowly. How have you been ever since? Have
you buried youreelf beneath piles of what women call ‘work,’ but which men
are prone to think ought to be done off the premises. I think a little idleness
would do you all the good in the world, if only you could get yourself to take
Kindly toit. Do try and make the most of your coming trip. Be resolved to
get all the good out of it, and bring with you as little care as you can—for care
is the heaviest and most troublesome of all luggage. Though I say this, I think I
myrelf, if I were in your place, would feel a little pang leaving your beautiful
home—even fora time. R— seems to me a place of peace. But then, 1
remember, I had nothing to do but enjoy it: were I governor or governess of so
large & household it might come on me sometimes from another point of view—
and I might like a trip to Aix, as I hope you will.

“The spring has just begun, and only begua. It was very late in coming
this year, but it is very beautiful now that it is here, How I enjoy driving
through the country as I have been doing to-day—watching everything, as it
were, beginning over again! Still, epring ia by no means my favourite season.
hope all the children are quite well now—though, where there are so many it is
hard to have all simultaneously well. I have read ‘ Democracy’ and ‘ Louisiana.’
The latter is exquisite. I shall not rest till I read ‘ Mrs, Burnett’ through,

“T wish I had some news to make a letter interesting—though I must say
my theory has always beeh that in letters between friends, ‘news’ is the very
last thing that should find a place. There is enough, and more than enough, of
that in the newspapers, and on the tongues of gossip. A letter should carry more
precious things—such as what we think, and how we feel about the little bit of
life that touches us closely, and every day I hope you think with me in this.”

The remark which introduced the preceding letter applies also
to the pleasant one that follows :

“Tt was at the same time too good of you, and too bad, to write so long a
letter at euch a time. Iam truly rejoiced that you were able to doit. What a
time you hava had since [ saw you, and how little I imagined when I thought
of you (and I do think of you sometimes) that you had drifted so near the
fatal shore on which all our life-barks must one day strike. Now, thank God,
you are out in mid-ocean again with many a fair day before you in which to do
‘the many thingu that fall within your daily work.

“To-day we have the first snow, and, in some way, I am glad to see it. It
ig so white and sc silent, it always seems to me like a garment of peace on this
troubled world. Still, it is hard for the poor, and for the birda—and I hope it
will not stay too long. I had to drive out to the country to-day—and it was that
reminded me of the birds. Poor things, you should have seen them—how they
flocked together as if to take counsel in this ‘calamity, and what surprise and
confusion the white world seemed to cause them.

“I am very sorry about the poor little child—but these things are in the
hands of Gud, and are amongst the mysteries we cannot solve in this world—

b42 Relics of “ A Certain Professor.”

but it is consoling to know that these little souls that die without baptism shall
never know any pain, but shall be happy with a happiness of their own which
will suffice for them. This is what most of the great theologians teach.

“About my not writing at Christmas—you know it was only a day or two
since I bad left you, and Iam so unconventional that I don’t like Christmas
letters or Christmas cards. So I wrote when all that was over. I hope M——
is all right by this, and poor D— and poor little N——. How hard a
thing it is to see little ones suffer. I had had thoughts of going to Dublin this
week, but now I shall put it off till about a fortnight. 1am troubled somewhat
with my ear—no pain, but an unpleasant sense of fulness and a continual noise.
However, it does not interfere with my work, and I am getting used to it; I
shall let it take its own course and its own time. I have no faith any more in
specialists—but in nature great faith.

“As for I begin to believe that he is a pure ascetic—one of those
who scruple to give pleasure to themselves or to others. I think, how-
ever, that real saints like to give pleasure to others. I do not quite mean
that is not a real saint, perhaps he is in process of becoming one—
and then the unpleasant side of his asceticiam will disappear. For myself I
fear I am eo little of a saint that I like to give pleasure both to others and to
myself.”

To a friend away on a trip to the Continent, the “ Certain
Professor” wrote a very amusing letter from which we can
venture only to take two fragments:

“Remember, the return from a journey like yours may well be made a new
starting-point ; and at the starting you must put away, and for ever, all worry.
It is worry that makes life hard, and oh! how useless a thing it is. You see I
am lecturing you; but if I have given up Jecturing the public in ‘Tae Las
Monracy,’ I atill claim the privilege of lecturing my friends .. . While you
are away, just do this—paint a careful picture, I do not mean on canvas but on
your memory. Study all the details, put in the very nicest bits of scenery and
the best faces you meet; throw as much sunshine over it all as you can, and
bring it home to hang for many a day in the chambers of your mind, recalling
this pleasant episode of your life. Indeed, but it is a sad thought sometimes
that we have to leave behind and see no more places and people that touch our
fancy, and sometimes touch something in us deeper than fancy. I have had that
feeling a thousand times. I suppose we shall meet all the very nicest people in
heaven; and surely we shall not hav. go without bits of scenery to remind
usof the dear old earth where we lingered and wept, were sad and perhaps
sometimes happy.”

Before continuing my extracts from Father Farrell’s corres-
pondence, let me quote the tribute paid to his memory at a public
meeting, by Mr. J. J. Clancy, M.A., one of the editors of The
Nation newspaper, and the popular candidate for the representation
of the county Dublin at the momentous election now impending.
In the course of his speech Mr. Clancy said that he “ could not
stand on that platform and address that meeting without thinking,

Relies of “A Certain Professor.” 548

of a great man gone whose presence, while he lived, dignified that
locality, and whose memory, now that he was dead, was a holy
inspiration. When he was in Monasterevan before, it was to spend
afew hours with Father Joseph Farrell (loud cries of ‘ God rest
him’) and though before that day he had learned, from his writings
and speeches, to admire and love him, it was only when he met
him in the privacy of his home that he felt the full charm of one
who united in his single person the best and highest qualities of a
true priest and a true patriot. They were bound to revere the
memory of such a man, and he would take leave to say that the
best way in which they could show respect for him would be by
carrying out both in the departments of religion and public life
the principles which he upheld throughout his career.”

Of the letters found among my own papers in the familiar
handwriting of the “ Certain Professor,” I have already given the
one written on the occasion of the death of Dr. Russell of May-
nooth. Father Farrell, in dating his letters, gave the day of the
month but hardly ever the year. Itis therefore only from internal
evidence that I conjecture the following to be the earliest of the
letters which I have preserved. It must relate to the lecture about
Money which appeared in the “Irish Montuiy” for August,
1874, the fifth of the series :

“ MARYBOROUGH.
“July 6 [1874].
“My pear FATHER RUS88ELL,

“Tam sending the remainder of the proof. Indeed it was not neces-
sary to send it at all. Besides, I can never see a proof-sheet without a wish to
re-write the whole article.

“You ask me what I have written ; and I am sorry to have to answer ‘ very
little !—in fact, I have hitherto published nothing of any account. The ‘ Carlow
‘Magazine’ contains only one article of mine. It was in the July number, 1870,
aud was entitled * Liberty and the Press.’ I have never been brought into con-
nection with published literature, and I have been too indolent, or have had too
little ambition for literary fame, or, perhaps found it too hard to satiafy my own
notions or come up to my own etandard, to have ever cared to push myself
forward. I have always bad a notion, too, that there were enough people writing
about everything. There haa, perhaps, too, been some degree of pride in wishing
rather not to do a thing at all than do it anything less than first rate, With the
‘Lectures’ it is different. They aim at nothing, and it may be they just
succeed in hitting it. At all events they suit me—suit my time and circum-
stances, and my inexact knowledge of things which I do know. Some day they
will cease, and, perhaps better things may take their place.

“Do you find the Magazine a success? I mean a commercial success; for,
after all, chat is the main point, even though ultimate ends be the loftiest
possib’e.

544 Relics of “ A Certain Professor.”

« Thope to be able to send you a lecture as oftenas you want one, and perhaps
a few verses. But contrive to tell me beforehand when you do want them—for
I cannot write very much in advance of requirement.

“T cannot but eay what I think about Miss Ryan's piece for August—it is,
that it seems to me a pity that she should throw her beautiful thoughts into
that broad Scotch, which will rob them of their beauty in the eyes of ninety-
nine out of a hundred of the readers of the ‘risa MonrHLy.’

“ As to changing the H. L. into J. F.—you must remember that both owe
their appearance to your own judgment—and to your own judgment I leave
them.

“JT have never read a word of ‘Jack Hazlett,’ but I shall do so, for I have
heard many people speak well of it. But I hate to read a serial story. Do you
know I think that in your editorial capacity you will miss it very much—for I
believe all editors find out how pleasant it is to have a substantial j Joint, however
plain. It gives them scope to devote themselves to those accessories which
make all the difference between a dinner and a banquet.

& Father O'Reilly is admirable, and I can assure you is relished by people
whom you would hardly imagine capable of relishing anything so substantial.

“Ever yours affectionately,
“JosepH FARBRLL.”

In the foregoing Father Farrell refers to “ My Twa Luves,”
by Miss Julia O’Ryan, which appeared in September, 1874. Guided
back to it now by this criticism of our lost friend, we have read
this poem anew with great admiration for its originality and
pathetic beauty. Some of Father Farrell’s own poems printed
in this Magazine had been signed with the final letters of his
name; and he speaks here of using rather his initials for this
p 'The last words of his letter refer to the late Father
Edmund O'Reillys essays on the Relations of the Church to
Society, to which Cardinal Newman called emphatic attention by
his manner of quoting them in his famous “ Letter to the Duke
of Norfolk.”

After many intervening letters which are as irrecoverable as
the lost decades of Livy, next come two letters which must
have been written in 1876, for they refer to the very remarkable
“ Lecture about Life,” which appeared at page 181 of our fourth
volume.

“ MaRYBOROUGH,
“ February 11 [1876].
“(My DEAR FATHER Rossg11,

“I am sorry to have come in any degree under the ban of a censor
whose opinion I value so highly. It were perbmpe better as well as safer to have
avoided dangerous topics, but there are topics that are everywhere discussed in
our day, and I think it quite inevitable that Catholics must discuss them and
impose upon them a Catholic sense. J, more meo, neither discussed nor dogma-

Relics of “ A Certain Professor.” 545

tised, merely suggested—and I should think it no small gain, even if the lecture
never saw the light, that the attention of such a man as Father O'Reilly was
directed to the problems it suggests. They are,I repeat, problems thet are
everywhere discussed—and one day or other they must be grappled with. I
believe them to be old difficulties in new forms, but in the new forma they must
be met again.

“T am glad that Father O'Reilly does not absolutely pronounce eny of my
propositions ‘false’ in the sense in which I might be judged from the context
to have conceived them. One sentence Ihed grave doubts about, and accordingly
1 correct that: the rest must take its chance. Let the censor decide—but if any
large portion of the lecture were condemned, I should rather the whole were
suppressed.

About judging—I scarcely think I exaggerate—by judging I mean,as might,
I think, be inferred from the context—‘ accurately to determine the amount of
responsibility to God.’ (Mind, I do not offer this asa definition but as a descrip-
tion of what I had in mind)—how in this sense I still think that neither in our
own case nor in that of others can we judge. For instance, in hearing confes-
sions I apply my knowledge of moral theology to what penitent tells me, and
Pronounce in a given case—that was a mortal sin; but 1 never profess to deter-
mine the degree of his responsibility; and think that the same sin may not
involve the same degree of responsibility in one and another, and that this
results from differences of circumstance and condition which I have no means of
ascertaining, and which I am not called upon to ascertain.

“There may be a danger of false impression, but such a danger, like other
dangers, must sometimes be incurred. Prudence may be the better part of
valour—but the valour that would be always equaring its proceedings by pru-
dence, would soon cease to be even respectable. I know these are sentiments to
vex the soul of an editor. You will say, indeed have said, ‘ Why will he not stick
to the safoP? Why, indeed—I write as I think—and do not suppose that either
my writing or thinking will cause revolutions in any sphere. Perhaps it had
‘been better that the series had closed, as 1 always meant, with the dozen. I
suppose that even had I commenced a new series, I should scarcely have rushed
at the outeet into difficult questions.

é Ever yours affectionately,
“Josgpg FARRELL,”

“ Marysorouas,
“ February 14 [1876].
“MY pear FATHER RUS8RELL,

“I am glad the correction was acceptable. I now send an adden-
dum that may possibly set the other objectionable paragraph right. I should be
extremely sorry that any erroneous or even dubious doctrine should be deducible
from my lecture, and I need only say that I eubmit ex corde to any corrections,
or changes, ot blottings out that Dr. O'Reilly may think needful. I am sorry
to have given you so mush trouble, and shall try for the future to steer clear of
roeks and sandbanks.

546 Relics of “A Certain Professor.”

“I have a new lecture ready, though not transcribed for press. Will you have
room for it in April? Let me know, and Ishall have it with you this week, as T
shall be away next week.

“Yours affectionately,
“Josgpg Fareet.”

Refraining from any footnotes or commentaries, we arrange
the following letters in what appears to be their proper chrono-
logical order. One of them refers to “ Miss O’Brien ”—namely,
the late Attie O’Brien, one of the most gifted of the friends that
this Magazine has gathered round it. “Uno avulso non deficit
alter aureus.”

“ MARTBOROUGH,
“ March 11, 1877.
“My pear Faroer Russet,
“Tend back the proof of the verses. Iam glad you like them.
There is at present no lecture on the an for I am just now in a transition
state that renders literary work an impossibility. I donot know the day when
I shall have to strike my tent and begone from Maryborough.

“ Your critical friend has reason for his strictures on the ' Certain Professor,’
perhaps. It has more than once occurred to myself after writing a lecture—
“What does anyone care what you think or feel about the subjects of these
rambling papers?’ They necessarily take an egotistical form. They do not
pretend to instruct. They aim merely at amusing. Whether they succeed
even in that is a matter that may illustrate the vast difference that sometimes
exists between intention and achievement. Egotist { may possibly be in treat-
ing my subjects from the point of view of my own impressions ; not, I think, an
egotist in the sense of unduly expecting my impressions to be of any great
value. I only hope that my critic supplies the ‘Iniss MonTaty’ with a
quantity of unegotistic papers. If he do, he has all the more right to hear-
ing, Father Finlay wonders do the lectures cost me much trouble? You might
tell him that they cost me just the trouble of living as long as I have lived,
and of becoming exactly what Iam. The trouble of actually writing them is
not great. I should like to see his ‘Savonarola.’ It is a subject on which I
have long had an intention of treating. He is one of my heroes.

“ Ever yours affectionately,
“ JosgpH FARRELL.”

— ,

“Maryporovas,
“ June, 1878.
“My par FATHER RUSAELL,
é I had somewhere found it written that a presentation copy is rarely
or never read. Well, I determined before thanking you for your neat volume,
to establish an exception to that general rule, I read ‘Emmagtal’ with great

Relics of “ A Certain Professor.” - 547

care, and with very great pleasure. You have earned the gratitude of everyone
who has the happiness of being interested in your great theme. And if He is
not unmindful of a cup of cold water, will He not richly reward a cup of true
poetic wine?

“1 felt in reading—I who have written so many idle words—thet you had
found the really profitable investment for your poeticcapital. Afterall, nothing
profits so much aa that which does good to others. I need not say I wish your
book every success, May it please many—but may it still more, fulfilling a
purpose still nearer, I am sure, to its author's heart—be the interpreter of the
many pious thoughts it will be sure to excite in those that read it, about the
Holy Eucharist.

“Is it a wish too far-fetched P (I do not think so) may you one day sing and
hear sung your verses in Heaven.

“ Ever yours affectionately,
“Josep FaRRRu.”

“ MONASTERRVAN.
“ March 24.
“My pear FATHER Rossevt,

“T was glad to get your letter. It proved you had not quite for-
gotten me, though I well deserve to be forgotten. I vem to myself to have
lost all wish and power of writing anything. I am as sorry for this as you can
possibly be. 1 read a great deal in a desultory way, and occupy myself with
my duties, and my days pass by, if uneventfully, yet peacefully. I shall be glad
and thankful to get Dowden, or indeed, any interesting book. I have been of
late very much thrown back on old books. That, however, I do not count a
disadvantage—yet one longs now and then for something new. I am quite well
—I need not ask about you, for you seem never to be sick.

“should like to know how is Dr. Russell, and I need hardly say that I
should be pleased, indeed, to learn that he is quite restored.
“ Yours affectionately,
“ JoswpPH FARREIL.

“ MONABTEREVAN,
“ May 1, 1879.
“Mr pag FATHER Russe11,

“Tt is startling to experience how apathetic conscience may become
after a long course of duty deferred. One first feels uneasy, then less uneasy,
until at last one almost forgets. However, I had not quite forgotten. When
I got the book you sent, I should at once have acknowledged it, but I thought
I would wait till I could express some opinion about it.

1 huve been disappointed by it. I think Mr. Dowden absolutely grovels
before his idols, and I think he has written (especially on George Eliot) a great
deal of what may be called ‘stuff ;’ other parts of the book pleased me better.
On the whole, I think I see signs of ambition on Mr. Dowden’s part (whether
realised fully or not I cannot say) of becoming the ‘king of a coterie ’—and
that ruins a critic. I am sorry to hear your account of Dr. Russell. I had
hoped that by this time he would have been his old admirable self.

“Yours affectionately,
“(Josera FABRRLL.”
Vou. xm., No. 148. a

548 Relics of ‘ A Certain Professor.”

“ MonagTRREVAN,
“June 11, 1879.
“My pear FATHER Russet,

“To-day, cutting the leaves of George Eliot’s latest book, I came
upon the sentence ‘ Bleseed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from
giving wordy evidence of the fact” This is my justification at present—eo, do
not blame but bless me.

“] take great interest in Miss O’Brien’s success, and I think her blank verse
is of a high order. I am almost sorry that she should let herself down into
stories. I shall not read her in the Weekly Freeman, but shall wait till she has
finished her labours. I hate to take my fiction in instalments. Indeed [ am
beginning to tire of fiction, except the very best, and have taken very much to
more serious though not less desultory reading. To the questions asked of me
by many, ‘Why do you not write?’ I feel an ever growing inclination to
answer: ‘Why should IP’ Little as my success has been in literature, it quite

- satisfies me- perhaps because it was so little—and I think I shall never write
again until forced either by internal impulse or outward pressure, or both.
Meantime, all manner of success to you and the 'Inisn MontHty.’

“ Yours affectionately,
“JosgpH FARRRLL.”

“ MONASTEREVAN,
“ April 30, 1880.
“My pean FATHER Rossen, ,

“TI cannot refrain from writing to tell you how churmed I was
with your commemorative versea to poor Dr. Russell. I will well express
what I feel when I eay that I think them quite worthy of the ead occasion of
them. I am sure he will know about them in Heaven: I thought I should
have been able to meet you at Maynooth, bat a mission had just opened here at
the time, and as it was only to last a fortnight, the work was too pressing to
allow me to go. I am eure you will be glad to learn that I have at last
conquered my long feluctance to appear again in print. I have sent a paper,
the first of a series of two or three, or perhaps more, to the Irish Ecclesiastical
Record. The subject is ‘St. Paul and Seneca.’ [ also made an unrhymed
translation of the ‘ Adoro te’ with a short prose introduction. I do not think
either was in time for the coming number, but they will see light in due time.
‘Now, I want to ask some information from you—you surely can give it, or get
it for me—it is about the authorship of the ‘ Anima Christi,’ of which also I
have made a translation. I only know this about it, that it is attributed to St.
Ignatius, and that there are various versions of it, some leaving out portions
that others contain, I want some information that will enable me to conatruct
a little prose frame for the picture. Indeed, I think, translations of church
hymns would make an agreeable feature in the Record, and, perhaps, you would
be able to refer me to some work in which I could learn enough about them to
introduce the translations in an interesting way. Dr. Walsh of Maynooth
sometime ago suggested to me to take up the subject of ‘The Hymns of the
Church ;’ but I am at a loss for sources of information. Now this seems to be
peculiarly your field, and it may be, you could direct me to the needful books.
I hope you -are well. Indeed yu must be, if 1 can judge from the large part

Relies of “ A Cartain Professor.” 649

you take on your own shoulders in the present “Inis MonruLy.’ May God
give you health and strength to pursue your labours!
“I will just add that it is on occasions of wanting such information as I
need that we will miss Dr. Russell.
“Yours affectionately,
“Josep FARRRLL.”

“ MONASTEREVAN,
“ May 24, 1880.
“My pear FATHER RUS8RLL,

“I thank you for the treat you have given us in ‘Madonna.’ I
think I like it even better than ‘Emmanuel.’ When you see the next Record
you will find from me some thoughts about ‘prayer poems,’ and I must tell you
1 thought of you when the words were written. Iam rather fond of unrhymed
motre—and perhape it is for that reason that I like best in your latest volume ~
“St. Agnes,’ and ‘St. Emerentiana,’ especially the latter. I have to thank you,
too, for the books you sent—I shall keep them safe, and send them back in due
time. Yesterday I was rather surprised by getting from Gill's two volumes of
Hymni Latini, 1 suppose they ware sent by your orders. I am sorry to say
they are of little use to me, ae I do not know German. As a collection of hymns,
they are valuable—but it is not hymns I wanted, but rather some historical
information about hymns, especielly about those that are best known. I shall
keep the two volumes till I hear from you. I have not yet got Mr. O'Hagan’s
translation—I suppose it is not yet out.

“I make a very modest beginning in the Record—my longer osesy is held
over for another month. I pray that you may be spared to gratify our Lord
and His Mother, and His saints by many more sweet songs.

“ Yours affectionately,
“ JoszpH FARRELL.”

“ MonasTEREvAN,
“ Jag 6, 1881.

“ My DpEAR Faroe Russet, má

«I hope it is not yet too late to plead, not in exouse, but in extenus-
tion of a delay in writing, that seems even to myself unpardonable. You must
have despaired of me when even the charming Christmas-box you sent me failed
to elicit an acknowledgment, Well, my delay in answering your letter of last
October was due to this, that I really hoped I should be able to do something
for the ‘In1tsx Mowry.’ Then great crosses came upon me. I lost my only
niece, a charming child of twelve years, after a few days’ illness, Three days
after I was overwhelmed by the death of my dearest friend on earth, Father
Tom Delaney. Since then I have not been well, and just coming up to Christ-
mas I got an attack of congestion of the lunge. I was barely able to say Mass
on Christmas Day, and the day after, but then I hed to give up, and have not
been out of doors since. I am now much better, and hope soon to be about as
usual. When I am quite restored I shall pay #long-meditated visit to Dublin—
and hope then to make my peace with you—though I trust it shall be made
before that. This time of illness is a time of despondency, and I seem to myself
as it I never should write anything again. It is not too late to wish yous
happy New Year~and, indeed, I do so from my heart. I hope your change to
Gardiner-street has been to your own advantage and to that of the Iniex

550 Relics of “ A Certain Professor.”

Monruxy.’ How proud you ought to be of your brother, who has done such
eminent service. May God reward him. Will you not forgive me, and accept
my best thanks for all your past kindness ?
“ Ever yours affectionately,
“Joseru FARRELL.”

“ MONASTRREVAN.

“ Christmas Eve, 1881.
“My prap FATHER Rosse,

“I suppose ,you will have quite forgotten my handwriting. It
would be no wonder. I have treated you so badly that I resolved to wait and
shelter myself from your just indignation under the mantle of Christmas. I
know you will forgive me. Ihave (to my grief) deserted the pleasant ways of
literature, for the noisy highway of politics. 1 have had to endure many
worries, both from public and private matters. I fear it will be some time
before I could make myself worthy to appear in the pages of the ‘Intex
Mowrntx' which you continue to carry: on with a vigour that surprises and
delights me, I was in Dublin not very long since—and very near you—but T
almost feared to meet you until I should first have written. I know you will
accept my warmest wishes for a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year
to yourself and the Magazine.

“ Yours affectionately,
““Josgpg FARRRLL.”

I remember Father Farrell once objected to the name "“ Winged
Words” given to those selections of pithy and striking sayings
which have very often appeared in the “Irish MoNTHLY” and
been received with marked favour. He quoted Homer to prove
that the epithet was used not ina complimentary but a disparaging
sense. A curious confirmation of this view occurred in that one
of Mr. Gladstone’s innumerable speeches which was delivered in
the island of Orkney when he and Tennyson (not yet Lord Tenny-
son) visited it during their trip in the Pembroke Castle, They were
both presented with the freedom of the borough of Kirkwall. In
returning thanks, the Prime Minister spoke thus of the Poet
Laureate :—

“Mr. Tennyson’s life and labours correspond in point of time
as nearly as possible to my own, but Mr. Tennyson’s exertions have
been in a higher plane of human action than my own. He has
worked in a higher field, and his work will be more durable. We
public men, who play a part which places us much in view of our
countrymen, are subjected to the dangers of being momentarily
intoxicated by the kindness—the undue homage of kindness—we
may receive. It is our business to speak, but the words which we
speak hare wings, and fly away and disuppear. The work of Mr.
Tennyson is of a higher order. I anticipate for him the immor-
tality which England and Scotland have supplied in the course of
their long national life for many whom you are proud of to-day.

Relics of “ A Certain Professor.” 551

The additions that have been made to your municipal bsdy may
happen to be examined in distant times, and some may ask with
regard to the Prime Minister, ‘Who was he, and what did he
do? We know nothing about him’ But the Poet Laureate has
written his song on the hearts of his countrymen that can never
die. Time is powerless against him, and believe this, that were the
period of that inquiry to be as long distant as between this day
and the time when Maestrowe* was built, that still in regard to
the Poet Laureate of to-day there would be no difficulty in stating
who he was and what he had done to raise the intellect and hearts
of his fellow-creatures, to a higher level, and by so doing to acquire
a deathless fame,”

Amongst Dr. Russell’s papers we have found the following
letter of Lady Georgiana Fullerton, which refers to Father
Farrell’s poem in the “Irish Monruty” on “The Laying of
the Stone”—namely the foundation-stone of the still unfinished
Collegiate Church of the great College of Maynooth :—

“97 CHAPKL Street, Park Lang, Lonpon W.
“Dear Dr. Russe,

“Pray accept my best thanks for your great kindness in thinking of
sending to me the epirited and interesting poem on the laying of the stone at
Maynooth College. I read it with great pleasure as I always do what has
relation to the Faith of Ireland —a country which, though have never seen it,
I love. Believe me,

“ Yours very sincerely,
“Gxorarana FULLERTON.
“ October 27.”

One of the preceding letters, referring too kindly to a little book
of verses about our Lady and the saints called “ Madonna,” alluded
to an article of Father Farrell’s in the Irish Ecclesiastical Record,
which may be found at page 278 of the volume for 1880. One
sentence may be quoted as a last “Relic of the Certain Professor:”—

“But suppose that such a poem was also a prayer; suppose
that the lips that first chanted it were touched not only with the
inspiration of human genius but also with fire froma far more
sacred altar; suppose that the repeating of it stirred that
thought of God which lies deep down in all the hearts He has
created: could any fame be purer or more holy than the fame of
him who, having spoken in the silence of his heart to God, found
his thoughts turning to music on his lips, and flying off beyond
his reach to the ears of men whom he never saw, never would see,
till they came to him in heaven to thank him for his prayer-
poem P”

"© A “profoundly interesting prehistoric relic ” which they had just visited
eight miles from Kirkwall.

(562)

THE SOLITARY'S GUEST.
BY THE REV. M. J, BYRNES, 85.

MBROSE, the saint, as he was named
Piously, when men spoke of him,
Bat by the door of his but, in the cool
Of a summer eve, when the light was dim.

Not idly eat; but plied his craft,
No matter how tired his fingers were,
With weft of baskets of wicker-work,
Since sultry noon and mid-day prayer.
For, years agone—three decades and more—
He had vowed, in his prime, to the Orasited,
‘To labour and pray, alternately,
In the desert, from dawn until eventide.
“Surely, the Lord hath witnessed my pledge,
Body and soul to Him I owe;
And if these hands are now weak,” he said,
“I must keep them steady until I go.
“ Surely, the gracious Lord will please
To render these failing hands their meed.
Hath any one faithfully served Him yet,
And found Him not, in hour of need?”

Thus, till an hour after fell of sun,
Monk Ambrose prayed and wrought the while;
And when he lifted his head, the light
“ Was faint on the waters of distant Nile.

‘What was it crossed the light, but then?
A shape of man, if hie eyes told true.
“3 ome brother secking the city, I trow,
Hath erred from the path the wilderness through.

“ He shall tarry, this happy night, with me,
And blest shall I be, if my meal he shares ;

For, erewhile, in Mambre’s Vale, ‘tis writ,
How Angele were sheltered unawares.”

Full of bis thought, Monk Ambrose sped
Forward to meet the stranger guest,

And with loving clasp and courteous speech,
He bade him welcome to food and rest.

“For well I know how it fares with him
Who travels the sands of the Desert rude;

‘With a comrade more joyous is the feast,
And since mating, I have not tasted food.

The Solitary’s Guest.

“But, first I pray you, throw back your hood:
The sand blows not through my sheltered nook,

I have made it pleasant with palm trees’ shade
And, yonder, runneth the living brook.

“God maketh the Desert to bloom for us—
‘And part the shoon from your burning feet,
And let me bathe them, on bended knee ;
To brother and guest such things are meet,”

Made answer the stranger in gentlest tones ;
So rapt his look and his amile so rare,
: That never, thought Ambrose within himself,
Had he seen a man so divinely fair.

“May Ho measure to you an hundred fold,
‘The Master, in whom we both confide !

in love and thanks I will sup with you,
‘Though with you, to-night, I may not abide.

“ For many a league ere the moon be full
Which mounteth now o’er the level plain,

I must hie me to join my brethren in choir;
But, in buief while, I shall see you sain.’

“ God speed you, then, if it must be so;
‘And haste your coming, good youth, to me,
For, as never before, my life seems lone ;
And lovingly I shell wait for thee.”

“Oh, fear me not, Father, I shall not stay,
Nor fail to bear good tidings to you:

To-morrow morn, at the hour of Prime,
Our epirits shall meet in affection true.”

Ambrose the Monk looked out on the skits,
From his pillow of wood and mat of straw;
And he said: “If my sins were not so great,
I could deem ’twas the Lord’s own self I saw.

“ For never, never ‘mid mortal men,
Is mien so noble and joyous bright:
Lord, if thy servant find grace with thee,
Speak thy message to me, this night.”

Raphael who standeth before the throne,
At the word, flashed down from the heights sublime,
And said: “ Brother Ambrose, dost'know thy guest P
I have come for thee st the hour of Prime.”

(554)

NEW BOOKS.

Messrs. Benziger Brothers, who have establishments at New York,
St. Louis, and Cincinnati, have rapidly attained a very prominent
position among the Catholic publishers of the world. In an earlier
part of our present Number, a brief paper is devoted to one of their
recent publications ; and another of great merit and interest, reaching
us at the last moment, has now the good fortune to be placed first
among the books of the month. A very beautiful portrait of “ Father
Teaac Joques, 8.J., Founder of the Iroquois Mission, killed near
Auriesville, N.Y., October 18, 1646,” faces the titlepage which we
transcribe in full: “The Life of Father Isaac Joques, Missionary
Priest of the Society of Jesus, slain by the Mohawk Iroquois, in the
present State of New York, October 18, 1646. By the Rev. Felix
Martin, S.J. With Father Joques’ Account of the Captivity and
Death of his Companion, René Goupil, slain September 29, 1642.
Translated from the French by John Gilmary Shea, with a map of
the Mohawk country, by General John 8. Clark.” Mr. J. G. Shea is
one of the most learned and most distinguished of the Catholic writers
of America, He is no mere book-maker, like some who contrive to
get their names printed on a good many titlepages. He is in particular
a high authority on all matters connected with the history of Catho-
licity in America. His present work is deeply interesting in its subject,
and Mr. Shea has fortunately not confined himself strictly to the réle
of translator.

The fourth series of “Irish Penny Readings,” to which we have
more than once called attention, has now been completed in ten weekly
parts, and forms a very cheap as well as a very pleasant and useful
volume. Its readers are pretty sure to ask for the three earlier
volumes of the series, if not already acquainted with them. “ Happily
the garland is not gathered from graves.” The table of contents
contains only the names of living writers except those of A. M.
Sullivan, Lord O'Hagan, John Mitchel, John Keegan, John Francis
O'Donnell, Thomas Davis, Father Joseph Farrell, Miss Attie O'Brien,
Isaac Butt, Archbishop Trench, Samuel Lover, Ellen Downing, Fanny
Parnell, and Denis Florence MacCarthy—a longer list than we
thought, but a small minority of the authors who figure in these closely
packed pages. The only Irishwomen, besides three already named,
are Lady Wilde, Mrs. Atkinson, Helena Callanan, Mrs. Power
O'Donoghue, Fanny Forrester, Katharine Tynan, and Rosa Mulhol-
land. The last two are represented by two of the longest and finest
but least known of their poems. Our criticism on this book is becoming
& mere enumeration of names, like Homer's catalogue of the ships.) We

Notes on New Books. 555

may carry the process further hy congratulating our own Magazine on
the large number of its contributors who are deemed worthy to con-
tribute also to this Irish anthology. Besides ten of the names already
mentioned, it claims Mr. T. D. Sullivan himself, the editor of the
volume, together with Mr. Arthur G. Geoghegan, author of “ The
Monks of Kilcrea,” Mr. Richard Dowling, author of “ The Mystery
of Killard,” and four out of the eleven priests on whom tribute is
levied. Three other names that are placed side by side form a very
curious combination—John Cashel Hoey, Alfred Perceval Graves, and
Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa. But we must not exhaust this analysis
of the table of contents. It is well, however, to mention that the cost of
the whole collection in a serviceable cover is only a shilling, and that for
threepence it will be posted from The Nation office, 90 Middle Abbey-
street, Dublin. We trust its rapid circulation will induce the editor
to undertake a fifth series before long. How quickly materials for such
a collection accumulate may be evidenced by two poems which appear
together in The Nation of this date (September 19th), and which we
will venture to introduce to our own readers. If they were stowed
away in the pigeonhole devoted to “ Borrowed Plumes,” they might
lie there, like many another good thing, for half a dozen years. We
fear that few of our readers are acquainted with the poetry of Sir
Henry Taylor, of whose Philip van Artevelde, a critic of high authority,
has written that, “ for largeness of scope and skill in execution—for
delineation of characters at once harmonised and contrasted—for
intellectual vigour, gravity, variety, and energy—it has no equal since
the Shakespearian age.” This Englishman had the good fortune to
win an Irish wife—a kinswoman, we believe, of Smith O’Brien—and
this strain of Celtic blood allows us partly to claim Mies Una Ash-
worth Taylor, especially as she hus published some of her finest poems
in The Nation. This is her latest—the moral she draws from the late
Egyptian campaign, applying to it bitterly the word of the prophet,
“the desert shall blossom like the rose.”

How many slain upon the sands red sodden ?
Hear, O thou Christian God! ‘The Christ-born came—
Bebold their track, the road their feet have trodden,
Their victories won—of triumph and of shame!

‘Thus is their gospel spread in far-off places,
‘As the old prophet in dim vision wrote,

Behold Thy Scripture graved in raddy traces,
‘And preached aloud from the fierce oannon’s throat.

‘Tho highway hath been made with sword and slaughter;
Henceforth in peace “ the Lord's redeemed ” may tread.
‘The thirsty land is fed with springs of water—
‘The heathen women weeping o'er their dead.

556 Notes on New Books

Bebold ! the wilderness breaks forth in singing,
But lamentations are the songs we hear ;

Thus march the ransomed of our Master, bringing
‘The tidings of salvation far and near.

Henceforth the parched ground hath no geeping peril,
The Lion of the waste lies in his grave;

Bushes and grass shall deck the desert sterile,
‘The home the warrior died in vain to save.

‘Bee the waste place lying
eyes might dreams disclose ;
Behold the blood of slaughtered thousands dying ;

The desert blossome—redder than the rose.

To this poem succeeds immediately the following song, which is
marked by the familiar initials of the editor of the volume from which
we are now straying a little :—

‘They say the clouds are clearing
. That long o'er Ireland lay,
‘They say the dawn is nearing
Of freedom's glorious day—
To all such news we answer,
“God grant it may be so;
But on we'll bear our banner,
Let the wind blow high or low.”

The weapons of our fathers
They bid us cast away,

For peace bas given us others
More potent far than they—

If these be truthful tidings
A little time will show ;

But ‘ forward” is our watchword
‘Lot the wind blow high or low.

Our brutal tyrant’s temper
In growing mild, they sag;
He hears the voice of reason,
Ho lets the truth have way.
For all his friendly seeming
We doubt our ancient foe;
But Ireland's cause shall triumph
Let the wind blow high or low.

When the author of these lines fills next year the civic chair of
our metropolis, Dublin will be able to boast that, in whatever other
respect she may be behind the world, she is governed by a Lord Mayor
who can sing a better song (in both senses of the phrase) than any
other mayor in the universe.

Any piece of writing by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, no matter how
political it may be, is sure to be literature also. As such we mention

Notes on New Books. 557

au excellent sixpenuy brochure published by Hodges and Figgis of
Grafton-street, containing his letter to Lord Carnarvon on “ The Price
of Peace in Ireland,” and also his “ Appeal to the Conservative Party,”
reprinted from the high Tory organ, The National Review.

Would that a large but thin quarto which lies before us were at all
worthy of its theme or even of the elegant typography which sets it
forth. We have never heard of “Miriam and Other Poems,” the
author of which now devotes twenty-seven sonnets to “The Mysteries
of the Rosary” (London: Burns and Oates). The most that can be
eaid of them is that they are fairly respectable. At Bethlehem St.
Joseph expresses his perplexity in this distorted and ungrammatical
couplet:—

Where shall, who shares my destitution, lay,
‘When burn, the Child whom creatures all obey ?”

But perhaps lay is not here the vulgarism for lie, into which Byron
himself falls in the most famous passage of Childe Harold. Perhaps
our sonneteer means St. Joseph to ask “ where shall she who shares
my destitution lay her divine child P” Even this interpretation leaves
the phrase harsh in the extreme. We should not dwell on blemishes
if beauties attracted our eye. But this very elegant quarto derives no
advantage from the old warning, “ Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

As we have been unable to speak as favourably of the preceding
volume as its theme and the character of its publishers would pre-
dispose us to do, we are reminded of avery different book which we
censured last month. We rejoice to see a similar tone adopted towards
it by other critics, especially in The Catholic World.

The Catholic Truth Society is pursuing its good work with great
zeal and success, printing and distributing a variety of useful sheets
and pamphlets. One of these, “ All is not Gold that Glitters ”"—a very
telling tract on the Education Question and Board Schools, by Father
Splaine, 8.J.—has run quickly into a second edition.

The President of St. Colman’s College, Fermoy, has given a new
proof of his literary industry and priestly zeal by translating from the
Italian Father Salvatori’s “ Practical Instructions for new Confessurs ”
(London : Burns and Oates), which the great moral theologian Father
Ballerini, 8.J., esteemed so highly that he issued a new edition of it
shortly before his death.

Part IV. of “ The Little One’s Own Coloured Picture Paper” is a
wonderful sixpennyworth and is the first to enlist chromolithography
in the service of the young.

The enthusiastic welcome given to the new Archbishop of Dublin
has suggested the publication of a popular sketch “ The Most Rev.
Dr. Walsh, Prelate and Patriot” (Lalor, Earl-street, Dublin).

The Stonyhurst Magasine has reached its twenty-first number. It

555 Notes on New Books.

bids fair to be, and it deserves to be an exception to the generally
short-lived race of academical periodicals.

“Christian Childhood: a Mother's Religious Instructions to her
Children” (Burns and Oates), is translated from the Countess de
Flavigny’s French, by a lady who has a very French name. It is,
however, well translated, and in itself it seems to be good and solid,
though it shows none of that wonderful adaptation to the thoughts and
language of the young which makes Miss Rosa Mulholland’s “ Holy
Childhood,” though a mere juvenile prayer book, a work of art and
even a work of genius,

No. 4 of the “ Lays of St. Joseph's Chapel” (London: Burns and
Oates) contains pious and prettily written ballads about St. Margaret
and St. Edburgh. And No. 5 of The Ave Maria Series, admirably
printed at Notre Dame in Indiana, is a solid and convincing lecture by
Father Zahm, on “ What the Church has done for Science.”

_ Mr. Wilfrid Robinson tells the story of “ The Revolt of the Nether-
lands” (London: Washbourne), within the compass of two hundred
emall pages of large type. He aims at nothing more than a clear and
interesting sketch of an important epoch in the history of the country
where he resides. This last circumstance perhaps accounts for his
choice of the subject.

Father Joseph Loyzance, 8.J., of Troy, New York, has issued each
month during this year, a special periodical for the benefit of St. Mary’s
of the Martyrs, “The Pilgrim of Our Lady of Martyrs, a Magazine of
early Catholic American History and of the present Indian Missions.”
The readers of the Life of Father Isaac Joques, mentioned at the
beginning of these book-notes, will be interested in the pious enter-
prise of which this is the monthly organ.

Two local controversies have led to the publication of two volumes
excellent in their kind—* Catholic Controversial Letters” by the Rev.
Philip Sweeny, D.D. (London: Washbourne), and ‘ Controversy
between the Rev. R. R. Kane and ‘8.J.’” These initials stand for
an intelligent Catholic layman who contributed these letters in the
first place to a Belfast newspaper. They speak well for the writer's
zeal and industry and for his innate controversial skill.

Two new books from the busy pen of the Head Master of Foyle
College must wait till next month.

( 659 )

MAROELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

amraos or “ aeria’s nrerony,” “THR WICKED WooDs oF ToBREETTL,” “ELDEROOWAN,”
“THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETC., HTC.

OHAPTER XXIV.

THE CONVICT’S WIFE.

‘Waen Marcella’s fit of prostration gave way and the vitality of
youth lifted her up and set her on her feet again, she looked round
in vain for the delusive hope that had carried her so far on her
travel of pain. As one short dark winter's day after another
dawned and set, and life went on monotonously in the silent house,
the hours going and coming with as little variety as the waves
that rose and fell with dreary thunder under the garden wall, and
leaving as little trace behind them, she realised gradually that this
separation was for life. There were no forces in nature, strong and
rich in resources though nature'might be, great enough to overturn
the barriers set up by man against man ; no subtleties of the brain
of a loving woman sufficiently ingenious to reverse the decrees of
a law-making universe intent on securing itself against the en-
croachments of crime.

Bryan, snatched from the very step of a scaffold, was yet con-
demned to a kind of death. Shut in his tomb, bound by the cere-
cloths of a living grave, swathed in the oblivion his friends had
consigned him to, an oblivion that blotted his name from the roll
of men who could be suffered to live, there was no gentle Saviour to
take away the stone from his sepulchre and bid this buried Lazarus
arise and come forth. There he must remain, sn living soul immured
in a vault till the years should shrivel his face, and extinguish the
light of his eyes, and dry up the sap in his veins. At each short
visit paid him at long intervals she must expect to find him more
worn, more weary, his mind more exhausted with the rebellion of
the imprisoned body, or, if less impatient of his restraints, then also
less strong to resist the slow blight gradually eating up his man-
hood.

When she began to resume the duties of her household, as

Vo. xnt., No. 149. November, 1885.

560 Marcella Grace.

much for the sake of others as to occupy herself, the effort was at
first utterly vain, the tasks would drop out of her hands, the entire
uselessness and futility of everything stared her out of counten-
ance, and her eyes would suddenly grow blind again to her actual
surroundings, and fix themselves with a fascinated gaze on one
point in a universe of wrecks and follies, the single dim ray from
heaven penetrating a dungeon and lighting up a solitary figure
built round with intolerable stone. .

Even long walks on the moors and rocks afforded her no relief,
such weak yielding to an impulse to escape with her sorrow from
all eyes bringing its own punishment. The result was too much
time and space for that kind of thinking which attains to no solu-
tion of anything, -but acts like the welling away of life-blood,
leaving a drained heart and a benumbed and bewildered intelli-

ce.

There was too much time and space everywhere for such a small
weak creature as herself, and all visible things seemed at pains to
enforce this idea upon her, and fix it permanently in her mind.

The wide rolling Atlantic waves that came and went as if out
of and into eternity, widening and lengthening with each fresh
approach and retreat, the free wandering moors that stretched
themselves out immeasurably under the rays of the wintry sun and
made paths for their own travelling through the clouds to infinity,
alike oppressed her with the invitingness and suggestiveness of
their triumphant scope. While she walked swiftly she asked
herself why she, and the land, and the water, and the clouds, and the
fleet birds, and above all the wild breeze, had such limitless powers
of going and coming, while the active feet of one who was always
in her mind were cruelly tethered within a few square yards of
masonry, restrained from even as much movement as the feeble
and the aged and the maimed among living creatures may enjoy.

At last the sickening hatred of the liberty of motion which he
could not share grew to a sort of madness in her, and she forsook
the moors and all out-door life, and shut herself up with Mrs. Kil-
martin in the room where the invalid chiefly lived, an apartment
overlooking the sea to which the afflicted mother had taken a fancy.

As yet, that poor lady had shown no sign of recovery from her
mental disorder, but neither had her madness assumed any unhappy '
form. It was still her mania that Bryan had escaped away from
Ireland at a fortunate moment, and was enjoying to the utmost his
travel round the world. Sometimes she fretted a little because he
did not write word that he was coming home, but soon forgot ‘this

Harcella Grace. ‘561

only cause for dissatisfaction. Formerly, Marcella had fled scared
from before her smiling face, and the task of inventing pleasant
answers to her ceaseless remarks and questions, but now that the
girl’s own heart-sickness had taken a new turn and she found a
relief in chaining her young limbs within limits as narrow as those
that constrained the prisoner whose life in bonds she was trying to
follow, she made fresh efforts to amuse the poor woman and to
humour her happy imaginations.

Letting her mind go with the stream of her companion’s
delirium she would pretend for a moment that the mother’s delu-
sion was reality, and reality only a nightmare, and would talk about
Bryan’s travels and Bryan’s enjoyment, would even read fragments
from Bryan’s letters to which she added passages of her own
invention, such as he might have written during an absence under
happier ciroumstances.

She would divert herself and her listener with descriptions of
scenery supplied by her own imagination, and with sketches of
imaginary people he had met. When the mother talked of his
home-coming, which she said was to be expected soon, Marcella
humoured the fancy, and, with what she felt to be a half-crazy glee,
spoke of the preparations that must be made for him at Inisheen,
the pleasure he would find in seeing certain improvements which
he had wished to be made, and of the jubilee that would be held
among the people to welcome him.

But when the pathetic play was played out, and the invalid,
soothed and charmed, had relapsed into her cushions to sleep a
little, Marcella had then to pay too dearly for the riot of her fancy
by the anguish of the reaction from imaginary happiness to
intolerable woe.

With her face buried in the foot of the mother’s couch she
‘would kneel with covered face, taking blow after blow as it fell on
her heart afflicting her whole body with physical pain, and then,
having borne the shock, she would pass a silent motionless hour,
seeing with her closed eyes into the.prison cell, watching Bryan
as he paced about his few yards of pavement, trying to look over
his shoulder on the page he was reading, scanning the pallor and
the lines of his face, striving to speak to him without words, to
make her presence known without touch or sound.

In the evening she would recover a little, would sing Mrs.
Kilmartin her favourite songs, and help her with her needlework,
and read, and talk, and feel a certain satisfaction in the thought
‘that she had passed-her day within limits almost as narrow as Kil-
martin’s own.

562 Marceila Grace.

This unnatural way of living could not go on very lorg with-
out leaving a trace upon her appearance, and when Father Daly
came in one day he was,startled at the look in her face.

“I am tired of walking out alone, Father Daly,” she said.
“I am trying to realise what it is to live within four close walls.”

“I see,” he answered. ‘You are anxious to take away
Bryan’s last comfort: when the time for your next visit comes
round you will not be able to go to him.”

“Oh, Father Daly, I am not ill. You don’t think I am look-
ing ill.”

“ Put on your bonnet and come with me at once for a walk.”

She went obediently, her heart throbbing with a new fear.
What if she were to be physically incapacitated by mental or bodily
illness from paying him thosejrare visits which even the rigours of
the prison law allowedj? She owned her mistake to her friend, but.
pleaded her terror of that melancholy which the widths and lengths
of air, water, and earth everywhere enforced upon her.

“Well, now, I have something to propose to you,” said the
priest. ‘My little school-mistress over in Ballydownvalley is not
very well, and a holiday for change of air would be a blessing to
her. I have thought that if you would take her place for a few
weeks two people might be benefited.”

Marcella hesitated. Grief has its feverishly active phases and
its indolent phases. Kilmartin’s wife felt herself at that moment
inert and helpless.

“ Of course, if you cannot think of it, I must try and incur
the expense of a paid substitute for her, or, failing that, let the
poor child take her chance of falling into confirmed bad health.”

“No, no,” said Marcella. ‘I will do it.”

“I knew you would,” said Father Daly, triumphantly. “You
will find it irksome at first, but what you want is to be forced into
something that will give you a little trouble quite outside of your
own affairs. To be obliged to drive three or four miles in the
winter mornings will be annoying but invigorating, and the effort
to keep about fifty brats in order for some hours will rouse you a
bit, I can tell you. And besides, my dear, it will bea step towards
closer intercourse between you and your people—and his—whom
you have been rather neglecting, haven't you P”

“Yes. They have all got away from me into the distance.
And when they do come near they seem like ghosts. Only one
person is real to me in the world.”

« And that one person you must forget for awhile. 'I'llengage
you won't get time to think of him during school hours. After E

Marcela Grace. 568.

have seen how this works I shall have another little plan to propose
to you; but one thing at a time.”

At first her new task was distasteful to her. That very
fact that she could not get leave to think of him for eo many
hours was a grievance. The noisy children were like a hive of
bees let loose, that swarmed round her head and shut out her view
of the sun. But by-and-by she had gained a sort of charmed —
sway over her tormentors which surprised and pleased her, and
she began to individualise the thin, large-eyed faces with their
various expressions, to notice that Mary’s lips were’redder than
Nannie’s, and Nora’s bare feet were emaller and finer than the rest.
that hung from the benches, and that plain-featured’little Bridget
always gave her a loving glance which more than any other went
warm to her heart.

The welcome of the echolars grew to be a distinctly good thing
in her day, when on going into the school-house she found half-e-
dozen young heads with wind-tossed locks bending together over
the fire of turf, while one fanned the flame with her scant petti-
coat and another pulled the logs this way and that way with her
brown fingers to make them burn briskly that “‘ Herself ” might be
warmed after her drive. And when in the twilight of a wintry
afternoon she was met coming out of the school-house door by a
crude, shy deputation of fathers arrived to thank her for her
devotion to their children, she felt an unaccustomed glow in her
veins, and thought with pleasure that here was something worth
telling to Bryan, something that would interest him and give him
a moment's delight.

In this writing to Bryan about it all she began to find her
reward. The little world of the school-house, with its various
characters and incidents, supplied her with many along paragraph
in her letters to the prison. The humorous scenes that occurred,
the comical things that were said, found their way into the pages
which occupied her evening after evening, and when Bryan’s replies
convinced her of the pleasure her pictures and anecdotes had given
him, she looked about with eagerness for fresh varieties of every-
day life with which to float a breath of fresh air into his solitude.

As with each new attempt to put the life of her world, the
little world he knew and loved so well, vividly before him, proved
a success, she felt a latent power awake in her, and with an excite-
ment that was almost joy went to work to exercise it for his.
amusement.

Now she had something to walk out for, a motive in making:

364 Marcella Grace.

daily visits to the school even after the young school-mistrees had
returned with improved health to her post, a distinct reason for
seeking out the people in their homes, hearing the tales they had
to tell, and witnessing the homely scenes of their lives, scenes in
which they gratefully made her asharer. It was something to
rise for in the morning, this search after life-like figures and scenery
for her evening sketching in the journal which she now kept
regularly for her husband.

Bryan, also, at her request kept a kind of record for her of
the details of his prison life, all that could interest without too
much afflicting her. Various characters of those with whom he
had to associate were drawn for her with a power and skill which
called forth her admiration. Sometimes in reading his letters her
sorrow was almost forgotten in her delight in the vigour and noble
temper of his mind, the manliness with which he accepted
his misfortune and made the best of his circumstances. There
were no complaints, scarcely even a reference to inconvenience and
privation. When he failed of subject matter out of his present
life he went back into his past, and gave her, bit by bit, a sort of
history of his own thoughts, and experiences, and aspirations, from
his earliest boyhood upward. Absorbed in this intercourse, Mar-
cella wore through the winter months with tolerable calmness.
Winter seemed suited to such a life, and lent iteelf easily to its
requirements. The morning letter received, the short dark day
spent abroad in the cold air, in the rough wind, among the poor
and patient, then the evening fire and lamp, the howling storm and
sea outside, and the scrape, scrape, of the pen that was carrying
her message, expressing the extravagant lovingnesses of her heart,
shaping out the humorous or pathetic anecdote which was to make
him laugh or thrill the next day forgetful for a moment of his
bonds. .

But when spring burst upon her and the first lark began to
sing, then again her life fell in ruins around her. How shape
summer with all its glories into any kind of harmony with the
tragedy of their two livesP

It was just when winter had breathed its last sigh and that
the lark had found a patch of blue from which to hurl down his
delirious rhapsody about liberty and joy upon Marcella’s heart,
that a passage in a letter of Bryan’s smote her with a new and
sharp anguish.

“I have learned,” he wrote, “ that as I am looked upon as a
well-conducted prisoner, I may hope to be liberated at the end of

Harcella Grace. 565

twenty years—always provided my good conduct continues. Here
is something to look forward to, my dearest love. If we both
outlive the term we may yet be together — ”

This, with the first primrose at her foot and new rose-tints on
the sea, was too much for the woman who in one winter seemed to
herself to have exhausted all the patience and endurance in her
nature. Strange that the fixed term of twenty years seemed to
her more intolerable than the vagueness of a lifetime. The idea
of the lifetime had been hard to grasp, and all sorts of shapeless
possibilities were felt to float through its measureless hours like
unseen stars through space. But twenty years made a compre-
hensible period, sickeningly long, calculably ruinous in its work-
ings, with a sharp, set limit that in its very assertion seemed to
annihilate any shorter limitations which an extravagant imagina-
tion might conjure up.

She asked herself what kind of creature she should have grown
to be during the slow, sad passing of those twenty years? Would
not the wife to whom he must come forth in that distant day be a
woman with faded cheeks, eyes whose lustre was gone, a worn
woman with youth long wept away and no remnant left of the
graces which ought to belong to the bride of such a man as Bryan
Kilmartin. Oh, why had she in that mad moment of their tragedy
stretched out her hand to take from him the liberty of even that
far future, bound him to herself for time and eternity, shut him
off from the possibility of choice in that new day which was still
to dawn for him so far ahead, and which might, only for her, have
possibly brought him new joys, a fresh beginning of life, happy
hours unclouded by such memories and associations as must always
hang around herP Ought not his wife, to be found among
the young glad girls of that future day P Oh, she would have tried
not to be jealous of those girls, whose fresh faces would, in that
far-off hour, put to shame her own grief-worn, tear-furrowed
countenance. She would have withdrawn herself, turned her face
to the wall, and left him to find his happiness in forgetting her.

: Then it occurred to her with a strange thrill of mingled relief
and anguish, that the Bryan of that day would not be one whom
glad girls would be likely to smile upon. He would appear
not as a man freed from unjust imprisonment with a stainless
name; he would be a convict, the brand of murderer would lie
upon him, the long expiation of his supposed crime would arouse
no pity, no sympathy among his fellow-creatures; the young, the
gay, the glad would shrink from him in horror. “Even if disease

586 Hareella Grace.

Lad not fastened upon him, and he did not come forth stricken,
crippled, and prematurely aged, yet there would be no one to
welcome him back into the sunshine besides herself, no one but the
faded wife to give him her faithful hand and lead him away to
some happy solitude of nature where the mountains and trees
would not gossip over his misfortunes, and the winds would not
execrate his name.

There was comfort even in this melancholy thought, and the
certainty that the very misfortune which turned and must always.
turn the world away from him made him more entirely her own,
filled her with an eager joy.

Having got over this point in her outlook to the future, she
began to realise a little more hopefully that there would after all
be a future, however far away it might now seem.

And then she began to gather up a few crumbs of comfort and
confidence in herself. Perhaps even if she should have grown old
and unlovely, he would still see her the same because of the
undying love in her heart. But in the meantime she must not
weep all the light out of her eyes; time would be busy enough
trying to quench it. From this point of view, even if from no
other, despair was her deadliest enemy. By a constant habit of
patience and the encouragement of sweet thoughts she would baffle
the attacks of this foe alike of her present and her future. She
would parry its thrusts and escape its disfiguring scars.

With rare visits to the prison and long weeks spent as close to
it as possible during which she had the sorry comfort of feeling
that she was at least near him ; and witha trip to a little frequented.
part of Switzerland made for the purpose of getting some variety
to put into her letters to him, she got through the dreaded summer.
Winter brought her back to her old ways at Crane's Castle, and
she added some daily hours of study to her former pursuits. And
then with the opening up of a new spring came changes.

CHAPTER XXV.
MIKE’ END.
Durtne that winter Father Daly had made trial of his second plan
for Marcella’s relief, which was the study of the Irish language;

and thereby he hung a long tale of the helpfulness towards herself
and others which she was to develop out of the acquirement of

— her native tongue. Having mastered the language herself she

Marcella: Grace, 567

was to instruct the children of the school (who already spoke it)
in the mysteries of reading and writing it.

He was to be her tutor, and the good old man was glad of this
excuse to spend two or three evenings of every week in that
melancholy house by the sea in the company of two afflicted women
who were forsaken by all the world but himself.

He was not a very practical tutor, as the lessons were constantly
interrupted by his announcements of various scraps of news which
he had picked up and treasured for Marcella, just to vary her
thoughts even for a few minutes. Thus he informed her at various
intervals that “The O'Donovan ” was staying on a visit at Mount
Ramshackle, that Miss Julia O'Flaherty had been married at last
to Mr. Jones, the wedding having taken place from a hotel at
Scarborough ; and, a little later, that Miss O'Donovan was about
to become Mrs. O'Flaherty.

To Marcella these items of gossip were the merest far-off echoes
of a world of which she had never known much, and had almost
forgotten. Old Biddy Malone’s toothache was of infinitely more
importance to her than the fact that Julia O’Flaherty’s bride-cake
had, like all the royal bride-cakes, been ordered from Chester.
Nevertheless she had grown to be thankful for any passing idea
that made her smile.

For Mrs. Kilmartin Father Daly had always cheery words
about Bryan’s travels and return, and a store of little jokes to
make the poor lady laugh. But he asked her no more for the song
of the Wild Geese, and the harp stood silent in the corner.

One evening after the usual gay ten minutes which he bestowed
on Bryan’s mother after his arrival, he pushed away the books
which Marcella had opened under the particular lamp which suited
his spectacles, and said : .

“Tt is no use trying. I can’t work to-night, my dear. My
mind’s uneasy. A bad fever, a kind of plague it seems to be,
has broken out at Athlogue close to Ballydownvalley, and the people
are dying fast. I’m thinking of what we shall do if it comes our
way.”

Athlogue was a district on the estate of the murdered Mr.
Ffont. The people there had long lived in a wretched condition,
and, since the murder, had fallen from bad to worse. The new
owner had refused even to visit the estate, and lived in England,
and the agent misbehaved himself pretty much as he pleased. The
plague that had now appeared was the outcome,of slow famine and

568 Marcella Grace.

hardship, and would probably effect many wholesale evictions,
carried out without the assistance of the sheriff and police.

The better condition of the peasantry living under Marcella’s
rule did not save them from the scourge, which, once started, flies
over moor and mountain like wildfire; and the fever was soon
raging at Distresna.

Marcella’s heart quailed as she saw two distinct and conflicting
duties confronting her. The doctor, who came from a distance and
had a large district to attend to, stated that the only means of
arresting the ravages of the disease were separation and good
nursing, and how were these to be effected and procured? The
poorhouse hospitals were full, and the people hated them besides.
There were no Sisters of Mercy within reach. The peasants were
deplorably ignorant of the first principles of nursing, and careless
of the simplest precautions as to infection. She herself was the only
person who could come forward and attempt to bring some sort of
order into this confusion of suffering and alarm.

And yet, BryanP If she were to take the fever and dieP
Seeing that he had only her had she any right so to desert him,
to risk falling away from his need? ‘Were all these people who
had grown to be so dear to her, were they all, put together, half
as precious to her as a single hair upon his head P

Father Daly had tried to be before her thought with his
warning.

“Remember,” he said, “ you are to stay where you are, to
stand to your post. You are not your own; youare Bryan’s. You
can give me your advice and I will carry it out. But we have had
tragedy enough in this family. I will not allow you to risk any
more.”

She had heard him with a sensation of relief; but that night
her conduct appeared to her in a different light. Was she Bryan’s
wife, and yet a coward P God would siand by her in her daring.
Her effort, her trust, would win a blessing for both of them, The
next day she met Father Daly at the bedside of a sufferer who
was “down in the fever.”

He saw her courage and faith in her eyes and did not remons-
trate! with her. A strong impression that she would be safe took
possession of his mind, and from that moment they put their forces
together in the work that was at hand.

She had already learned a good deal about nursing from the
various attendants of Mrs. Kilmartin in her illness, and now she

Marcella Grace. 569

easily took in the doctor's directions as to the treatment of this
particular disease.

Her first care was to have long wooden sheds erected as a kind
of temporary hospital, and she spared neither money nor personal
attention to fit them with all that was convenient and comfortable
for the necessities of the patients. Two or three healthy, strong-
hearted girls volunteered as hospital nurses under her guidance,
and her old ally Mike constituted himself her chief attendant and
assistant, going and coming with her, fetching and carrying for
her, and doing no small share of the nursing besides.

For this faithful lad she had grown to feel a special affection,
associating him as she did with Bryan’s trouble from the very
beginning, and knowing that he had done his utmost for him at
the trial. She allowed him now to do all that he wished, to think
that he accomplished even more than was possible, and to know
that she was grateful to him for all.

Soon the aspect of the plague-stricken country was changed.
The panio subsided, the suffering were glad to go at once to where
“ Herself” would take care of them, the houses were kept as free-
as possible from infection, the deaths were fewer than they had
been, and.those who died went their way in peace and full of
consolation. To no people on earth can death be made so sweetly
acceptable as to the faithful among the Irish poor.

In the urgency of the need, in the press of the work Marcella
forgot her personal fears. The belief that God would protect her
for the sake of Bryan, who was so good, had strengthened into a
conviction that no amount of weariness or anxiety could shake.
If heaven was sometimes mysteriously severe it was also unquestion-
ably merciful. So large a share of suffering had been laid upon,
and accepted by him and by her already that this particular danger
would be sure to pass by and leave them entirely unharmed.
Instead of breaking down under her efforts she seemed to grow
stronger, brighter, more thoroughly alert and alive. She felt a
motherly love for her recovered patients, and knew besides that
the lessons they had given her in faith and patience were well
worth the price she had paid for their lives.

The hospital was at a distance of two miles from Crane’s
Castle, and stood on a wide stretch of high ground, not near to
any habitation. In a small shed close by, she and her nurses
changed their clothing on coming to the place, and before return-
ing home, so that infection might not be carried by their means.

570 Marcella Grace.

Here also she kept the medicines and various necessaries given into
her charge by the doctor.

On her way to the hospital in the mornings she was accustomed
to meet Mike, who had either passed the night on guard among
the sick, or had been busy on the scene of work from daybreak.

Running to meet her, to know if she had any messages or com-
missions to entrust to him, he often appeared at a point where
the road was met by a narrower one leading to the mountains ; and
one morning as she passed this bend of the road, she looked up the
path, while the thought just crossed her mind that Mike was not
coming this morning by that way.

She felt pleased that her solitary walk had been so far
uninterrupted, as of late this hour had been the only one in which
she had leisure to think her own thoughts freely. At the same
moment the sound of a shot that came with startling distinctness
over the shoulder of a hill was heard by her with a sinking of the
heart. That particular sound of the discharge of a gun—(not a
very uncommon one in a country frequented by sportsmen) always
smote her with a shock of indescribable pain. She must evermore

_ associate it with the idea of murder, and with all the horror and
disaster that a murder had draggei after it into her life.

Such a shot, though neither Bryan nor she had heard it, had
been the signal for the beginning of their irreparable mis-
fortunes,

Looking up at the blue sky, with high-sailing clouds, and at
the plume of purple heather stirring upon the brow of the bluff
above her, she dismissed that thought, but was sorry to feel sure
that some happy bird had in that moment of her thinking been
brought low.

Arrived at the hospital she found that Mike had not appeared.
there that morning, and after some hours it was felt that he was
seriously missed. Nobody had hitherto thought a great deal about
his simple serviees, but now that they were not to be had their
value began to be recognised.

In the afternoon a general fear was expressed that Mike was
himeelf “down in the fever,” and a messenger was deapatched to
the mountain to bring tidings of him.

It was still broad daylight when Marcella set out again on her
evening walk homeward. She was feeling grieved for her faith-
ful friend and eervant, sure that nothing but illness would have
kept him from his post, that to-morrow she would find him on a
bed in the hospital. He was a frail creature and the fever would

Marcella Grace. 571

carry him off; though not if skill and care could save him.
Repassing by that crooked point of the cross-roads she remembered
the sound of the shot heard there in the morning and the pang it
had given her, and again she looked up at the bluff above her
head. There was the ragged bunch of heather swinging from the
verge, only coloured a burning crimson now in the glow from
the western horizon. She would get up on that breezy rock,
before the glory faded. What a sweep of valley, mountain, and
firmament must be visible from such a vantage ground. She turned
up the by-path and ascended the narrow zig-zag that climbed the
bluff.

How wild and sweet, how magnificent, and yet how peaceful
was the world in which she breathed, on which she gazed! The
scents of wild thyme and honey were in the breeze, a plover cried
faintly in the distance, a flight of moor-birds winged over the brow
of the hill she was climbing and circled in the upper air, the richest
Tyrian dyes never produced colours so deep or so living as
the purples, orimsons, rose-reds, ambers, that lay about her,
above and beneath, softened and yet intensified by the grey of
approaching shadows.

If Bryan could see this, but for one moment, one little half
hour. She walked a bit across the hill, ascending as she went,
fascinated by nature’s meanings and mysteries, unwilling to break
the spell of the enchantment of the hour. She would have ample
time to reach home before nightfall; and even if not P She was
at no time afraid to walk the hills and valleys of her little king-
dom unattended.

She stood still and rapt for some minutes, looking upward,
downward, outward, and then she began to move again, while her
wide wandering gaze wavered gradually to what was near her as
she stepped. Suddenly with a sharp cry and pause of her heart's
beating, she came to a dead stop, staring at something a few yards
away right in her path; a man flat on the ground, arms out-
stretched, and ghastly face to the sky.

It was Mike, her trusty friend, shot through the heart, dead
as the stones, still and silent as the lonesome mountains that looked
down on him.

Vou, sr. No. 149. 48

672 Marcella Grace.

CHAPTER XXVI.
A WARNING.

‘Tere was grief and indignation among the people at the news
of Mike’s cruel murder, or “sudden death” as they called it,
speaking under their breath as if they feared the blades of
grass at their feet could hear them. Marcella, catching their
whispers, told herself that these people must have lived terribly
between two mortal fears—dread of the landlord, and dread of the
secret societies—to have learned this cowardice, they who cared so
little for hurt or death. Mike was followed to his grave by true
mourners, but there was no loud demonstration on the part of his
friends, and nothing was said about trying to discover the authors
of his death. He was put away under the sod and apparently out
of mind, with sighs and shudders ; but even his own family men-
tioned him no more.

Marcella, having questioned some of the people on the subject,
but without getting any satisfactory answer, asked Father Daly
the meaning of this unnatural state of things. Was the murderer
one among themselves, and had friends and neighbours agreed by
common consent to condone the crime ?

“Hush!” he said, “it is enough for me to speak loudly when
I denounce the murderer from the altar, but it will be safest for
you to be silent in the matter. Neither friend nor neighbour
could do any good by lamenting over poor Mike’s untimely fate.
The same hands that with one blow struck Mr. Ffont—who, God
forgive me for saying it, had worked hard to earn his fate—and
struck your husband for defying the power that moves those hands,
have felled this harmless lad. Doubtless he was marked from the
first moment when he ventured to warn you of Bryan’s danger,
and told off as ripe for death after he gave his evidence on the
trial. We have had a visitor or visitors in the country, it seems,
unknown to us. Let me entreat you, my dear, to do nothing to
provoke their attentions, to be silent on dangerous subjects, and to
be careful how you go and come.”

Marcella, appalled at such a view of the case, struggled awhile
with her impulse to cry out, to condemn, to warn, but remember-
ing her helplessness as a woman, and Bryan’s dependence on her,
lowered her voice, and was careful in her movements, and acknow-
ledged herself at last to be a coward.

“For they would strike a woman,” she said to herself, Those

Haroella Grace. 573

who would harm a poor simple youth like Mike would strike a
woman. And I cannot deny that I want to live for Bryan. I
braved the fever for the sake of the saving of many, but I am
powerless here; and Mike is alroady gone beyond my help ”

She did not, however, alter her usual course of conduct, persisted
in the discharge of her self-imposed duties, and hung out no signals
of fear.

Mike had been in his grave a month and the fever was abating ;
September brought cold, fresh weather, unfavourable to the spread
of the scourge, and there was hope that it would have quite dis-
appeared before winter.

One night Marcella had sat up later than usual to finish the
letter that, whatever the labours of the day might be, was unfail-
ingly posted to Bryan. She had had much to tell him lately and
as she sat now alone with lamp and fire she told him that she felt
with relief that winter was coming back and that the sweet airs he
could not breathe with her, end the brilliant{scenes he could not behold
with her, were going and would soon be gone—she felt nearer to
him as she was now, shut in a room, all her mind concentrated
on her thought of him ; even the sighing of,the night wind ——

What the night wind had to do with her fancies remained
untold, for suddenly glancing up, shezknew not from what cause,
she saw the figure of a man coming into the room. She was sitting
in the library, a room somewhat removed from the others in the
house, the table and the fire were between her and the door.
Scarcely believing the evidence of her senses she stared at the
figure, saw that it was totally strange tofher, that all the middle
part of the face was blackened over so that the features could not
be recognised, and finally that it}was advancing towards her.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half an
hour past midnight, and the servants had all been in bed for two
hours at least. In the midst of the;confusion of her sudden alarm
she realised that there would be no use in calling for help even
if her voice would come. If this meant death, then it must be
death ; yet if she could keep her senses

The man had advanced to2the table at which she had been
sitting, and stood at the other side of it leaning towards her, his
long, light-coloured eyes gleaming horribly out of the blackened
face. Marcella had arisen as he drew near, with an attempt at
defiance, and clenched her hands fon3her breast, striving to force
back the sob of terror that broke fromiher. With a flash she saw
Mike lying with the wound throughJhis heart. She was Bryan’s

574 Marcella Grace.

wife and they were coming to punish her for having stood by him.
And he would be left alone—unless she could use her wits. But
with this struggle in her throat—how P

She kept her eyes all the time unflinchingly on his with an
instinctive assurance that if she withdrew them an instant he
would stretch out the cruel claw-like hands that supported him as
he leaned across the table towards her, and would strangle her.
‘Where had she seen those hands before P Her mind wandered back
asin a sort of delirium to the trial, to the witness-box. No, she
would not swoon, she would try te speak, she would not scream ——

And then, after enduring this dreadful madness of gazing and
battling for sane thought for a full minute, which seemed like
years, she heard the man begin to speak, not ferociously, but in a
quiet, reassuring, reasoning tone of voice.

“Don't, be so frightened, lady,” he said, “I’m no burglar, and
I mean you no harm—that is, not unless you force it from me. I
have come here to talk to you about business. Come, lady, I
know you have pluck. Drink this glass of water, here quite handy,
as if you were expecting me, and sit down and attend to what I
am going to say to you.”

Marcella drank the water, hoping thet it would give her back
her voice, and almost thankful to him for suggesting it. Then
she sat down and made a great effort to gather up her wits so as
to defend Bryan’s property, that is, her own life, and all the com-
fort and service which that otherwise worthless life must mean
for him.

Presently she was amazed to hear her own voice speaking
rationally and quietly in the terrible silence of the room.

“If you wanted me on business,” she said, “ why did you not
come in daylight like an honest man? I am here every day to
see all who come.”

“Thank you, but that would not suit me at all. My business
is not ordinary business. I have come from them that have their
own ways of working. Lady, you have got a warning lately.
You met with something in your path that you did not like.”

The lowered voice and insinuating tone emphasised the last
words. O God, he was hinting at the murder of Mike. Her
blood curdled as she saw again that white face staring up through
the heather at the sky. So should she be found one day; and
who would dare to tell Bryan P

“Now, lady, we don’t want any more blood in this matter if
we can help it; but maybe we will not be able to help it if we

Marcella Grace. 576

find people stupid and obstinate. I come from them that are bound
to work their will, not for your sake or my sake, but for the sake
of the great cause.”

“I am waiting to hear what you want me to do,” said Mar-
cella, mechanically.

“ Well, lady, your husband, Mr. Bryan Kilmartin, belongs to
us. That’s one thing I have got to put before you. Once one of
us, always one of us. He thought to shake us off and he was
punished. Death was the punishment due to him, but an accident
came in the way, and in a matter of a handful of years, twenty,
eighteen, maybe fifteen—who knows? he'll be out on the world
again. And, lady, he'll wantsomething todo. The pretty, genteel
world he wanted to belong to will have nothing to say to him. Let
him return to us and we will rub out old scores. What you've got
todo now is to swear to me, and to give it to me in writing, that
you will use your influence with him. It’s well known to us that
you write to him pretty often, and that you’re the kind of a wife
that sticks to a man like glue—that you will win him over for us,
so that when he comes out of his prison he will be one of us again.”

“Never!” said Marcella.

“Ah, I thought you would say that at first, for you area
plucky one—I always said so, but I am going to give you plenty
of time to think the matter over. It’s a matter of life and death
to you, but you won’t mind that so much as some of your sex
would do, for their own sakes, I mean. But when you come to
consider of it, you'll think a good deal about all that you'll bring
upon Bryan Kilmartin by refusing. When you are gone, he'll sit
there in his prison cell—a hell of a place I can tell you—a desperate
man, and by the time he comes out he'll have worked himself mad.
And so we'll be pretty likely to get him without any thanks to you:
The law has condemned him as one of us, and the world believes
he belongs to us, and he’ll find out he may as well have the game
of it, seein’ he’s got the name of it. You and him can both be
useful to us, but he’s the one we want. We can do without you.
So now you know what I mean, lady. As it is, you've been rather
in our way for some time back. We have a score running up
against you since the night you hid Kilmartin. At present you
stand between us and the people here ; you've got a lot of work in
you and we could make you very useful; but if you won't change
your hand, and work for us, you'll have to go.”

“I must go, then.”

“No, you needn’t, I have my orders and I shallobey them;

576 Marcella Grace.

but it’s part of my business to tell you that we would rather not
meddle with women if we can avoid it. As I said, you are
going to get time to think about it. Wedo nothing without
plenty of warning. You have ten days from this time to turn it
all over in your mind. On the tenth day when night comes, you
will put a light in your bedroom window, a bright light to burn
all night, so that it can be seen ; and I will—no, I will not come
here again, trust me for that—but I will contrive to meet you
somewhere and to get that promise in writing from you. And I
will have means of knowing too whether you keep your word ”

“ And if I make no sign?”

“ Well, I would rather not speak uncivil to a lady, but in case
of obstinacy you will be likely, sooner or later, to—meet with a
bad accident.”

“I suppose this is all you have to say for the present,” said
Marcella, struggling to control the expression of her horror.
“Tf it is, I will ask you to leave me for the present.”

“ I'm going,” said the intruder; “ but I must say before I go
that you are a plucky one, lady. I was afraid I might have
frightened you to death. And I don’t want to hurt you—not if
I can help it. I’m only doing my duty and obeying my orders.
You'll learn to do the same before long, if you are wise. Good-
night.”

Marcella saw him withdraw from the other side of the table,
turn and glide away, she did not see where. Her eyes, released
from gazing at him, grew suddenly dim and she groped her way to
adoor near her with but one thought; that she would escape to
her room before the reaction after her fierce effort at control should
set in and might take away her senses. To wake from a swoon,
here, alone, in the dead of night with the recollection of this
horror staring her in the face might overturn her brain. Safe in
her bedroom she locked the door, and flung herself on the bed,
feeling secure for the moment, if not yet capable of thinking.

Her first clear thought in the matter was that she would write
to Bryan and ask his advice, his guidance as to her conduct ; he
would know how she ought to deal with these people. Whatever
he directed her to do she would do. The next thought that came
to her was that she must do no such thing, that she would not even
hint to him of what had happened. His anxiety for her might
lead him to think of temporising with the fiends, thus entangling
himeelf, through her, inextricably, in their toils, By telling him
she could only fill him with alarm and cruel agony of mind causing

Harcella Grace. 577

him to fear every moment, throughout the long monotonous
moments that made up the prisoner’s day and night, for her safety.
She would take counsel with Father Daly only. She would fight
out this battle for her husband and for herself, alone.

As soon as possible she hastened to the priest and related her
extraordinary story. The old man stood aghast at the dilemma in
which he saw her placed. He was dazed and horrified. He had
no expedient to suggest, no advice to offer.

“They mean what they say,” he said, walking about his little
parlour where his breviary lay open on the table showing where
he had been interrupted in his reading, “and they generally do
what they threaten ; not always, perhaps, but generally.”

“Not always?” asked Marcella, tremblingly.

“ Sometimes their only object is to frighten, but I am terrified
for you, terrified, terrified. I can only think of getting you away
out of this ——”

“ Would that do any good P” said Marcella. ‘It seems tome
that if they want me they will follow me—anywhere. I have got
the impression that if I try to escape they will be the more bent
on having me. I fancy that the only thing that seemed to soften
that wretch towards me was what he called my ‘pluck.’ If I
stand my ground, I have a chance; if I run, I am lost ——”

“Yes, you are right; they admire courage. It is the only
virtue they have any longer a conception of. Oh, my lost sheep,
my men who ought to have been soldiers!” cried the old man,
throwing up his trembling hands, “ When will the Lord lift the
pall that hangs over this unhappy country ?”

Then, recovering himeelf and returning to the urgent question
of the moment, he went on:

“ And yet I must think about guarding you. I could amuggle
you into a convent where you could live as one of the nuns — ”

Marcella shook her head. “I feel that it would be no use,”
she said. “The moment I tried to come out again, they would
meet me on the threshold. .That is, if they are in earnest. If
they are not, why I should only be wasting my time and neglect-
ing my duties here.”

“In the meantime, at all events, I will put you under the care
of the police.”

“I will not have the police,” said Marcella. “I will
not be followed about as if I were an evicting bailiff or an
inhuman landlord. Father Daly, the more I think about
this, the more clearly I see that my only chance ‘is quietly

578 Marcella Grace.

to ignore their threate. Even in the hope of ultimately persuad-
ing me to their ends, of utilising my ‘pluck’ for their
own purposes, they may let me live a littlelonger. I will not
temporiee, I will not hold out a straw to them, but I will go my
own way and take the chances that are in my favour. If even
after five years’ persuasion I could be induced to yield and take
their oath, think how useful my money would be to them. They
will hope, perhaps, to weary me out with fear ——”

“ And, my poor child, are you strong enough to live with such
a sword over your head?” asked the old man, taking her warm
hand in his own cold ones, and looking pityingly in her.eyes.

“Ido not know. Who can tell how much he can suffer till
he tries? Perhaps, if it were a question of myself alone, I should
commit myself to God and say, ‘let it be ended quickly, whatever
is to be the end!’ But ”

“Yes,” said Father Daly, as the look of almost stern resolve
left her brows, and her lips quivered. ‘Yes, the whole of it is
in that ‘ but,’ I know. Then may God in heaven assist you, my
dear, and inspire you in every step you take, for it seems to me
I have come to the end of my helpfulness!”

During the ten days that followed that midnight visit Marcella
went her way exactly as usual, and when the night of the tenth
day arrived she went to bed early, locking her door and leaving
her room in darkness. It surprised her to find that the terror she
had expected to feel on this night, more than all others, did not,
after all, assail her. Feeling that she had decided as best she
could and that the die was cast, she fell asleep from sheer weari-
ness, the entire bodily collapse that often follows on a long strain
of suspense and excitement.

The next day she arose refreshed, wondering at her own fear-
lessness, cheerfulness, almost gaiety of spirit. Now that her course
was finally taken she knew by the sense of relief that underlay

“her good spirits that she must have been in danger of turning
coward, and of ruining Bryan’s after-life by her weakness, Even
if she died, and she did not feel that she was going to die, she
would have done nothing to compromise him or his future. Almost
before breakfast was over, Father Daly appeared.

“I knew you would be off to the hospital as usual,” he said,
seeing her hat and gloves on the table, “and I have come as your
escort. For the future you must have some one with you where-
ever you go.”

“What use, what use, Father Daly ?” cried Marcella, drawing

Marcella Grace. 579

on her gloves. “ You are always welcome, but I do not change
my habits one iota. My mind is made up.”

Her eyes were sparkling, and a little red spot was on one of her
cheeks. She laughed as she tripped down the steps before him.
Then she turned grave for a moment as she looked back at him
and saw his anxious face.

“I have said my prayers, Father Daly, and what matter
about the rest? Something is going to take care of me, I know;
else how could I feel so blithe when there is everything against
me?”

Father Daly answered nothing except by taking her hand and
placing it on his trembling arm with an air of protection; as he
went along he found himself almost tottering. He realised for
the first time that old age had come upon him. It was a fresh,
bright September day: the birds were singing with that spon-
taneous afterburst of song which breaks from them when the heats
of summer have gone away. The purple colouring of the
heather was at its perfection; the shining silver of the sea was
subdued with soft grey lines, the moors were at their tawniest
and loveliest. When they had walked about half a mile, a man
met them at a turn of the road and appealed urgently to the
priest to come with him at once up the mountain where a person
lay suddenly dying who had something afflicting on his mind.

The priest stood still with a shock of disappointment. Why
could he not fulfil first the task he had undertaken of conducting
Marcella safely to her destination? He hesitated, and the
messenger renewed his entreaties. It was an urgent case, a
desperate case. There was not a minute, not a second to be lost.
After a minute’s struggle and a short prayer Father Daly’s
hesitation was over. His priestly duty lay up the mountain-road.
The angels must take care of Marcella.

( 280 )

SANCTUARY!

“ QANCTUARY! Sanctuary!
S Good Lord Jesus, ope to see

‘Two tired travellers at Thy gate,

‘Wan and worn, and desolate,

‘Who all night have wanderdd

On Death’s weary waste,” she said.

“ Sanctuary! Sanctuary !

Fair Thy lighted casemants be ;

Streams the rose-light through Thy door,
And the song rings evermore ;

But outside the night is black,

And a foo is on our track,

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Tam weak, and weak is he—

Icy dews are on his head,

On his hair's young gold,” she said,
“ And our eyes are blind with tears,
And our hearts are cold with fears.

“Sanctuary! Senctuary!

Many a long mile travelled we—
Tin life, and he in death

Fared by many a lonely heath,
Seeking still this palace hall
Where Thou holdest festival.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Stirs the tender heart in Thee ?
Lo! two weary souls that stand,
Heart in heart, and hand in hand,
‘Where the shadow thickeneth—
One in life, and one in death!

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary !”

Still unweary pleaded she.

“ Lo! Thine own lamb, at Thy gate,
‘Whom didst early seek and late,

Whom didst ransom with Thy Blood,—
Ope, Lord Jesus, dear and good !”

Sanctuary ! 581

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

Was the Bridegroom fair to see,
Sitting at the table-head

‘Where His shining Supper spread;
Fair the guests, all clad in white,
Each clear brow enaureoled bright.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

And the gold cup lifted He,

With His lovely eyes ashine,

Brake the bread, and poured the win
Sudden through the banquet hall
Rang the sweet insistent call.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary !

“Lol is one that calleth me!”
Oh, the Bridegroom goeth fast -
‘With a sudden tender haste,
Flings the gold door open wide—
Midnight, and the storm outside!

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
“Thou hast tarried long,” saith He,
And His lamb He gathereth,
‘Weak and drenched with dews of death.
One hath turned her round and gone
Back to earth—alone, alone.
EATHARINR Tyxan.

( 582 )

THE OCTOBER OMISSIONS OF MR. JOHN OLDCASTLE.
BY THE PRESENT WRITER.

[HE title of this paper has the advantage of being utterly
unintelligible to anybody except the present writer, and
perhaps Mr. John Oldcastle himself. Mr. John Oldcastle isa
frequent contributor to certain London periodicals, and his articles
are often distinguished by an agreeable chattiness and mild
personality, the light tone of the “Society” journals without a
trace of their uncharitableness. As he often sprinkles his pages
pleasantly with living proper names, it may be lawful in turn to
reveal some of our suspicions anent Mr. John Oldcastle. There
used to be a nursery rhyme about “ Eliza, Elizabeth, Betty, and
Bess going into the wood to rob a bird's nest.” The end of the
adventure the present writer knoweth not, but it turned on these
four personages being in reality one and the same. We suspect
something of the same kind would occur if Mr. John Oldcastle
were, like Dr. Johnson, to say to the editor of The Weekly Register,
“Bir, let us take a walk down Fleet-street,” and if during their
walk they were joined by Mr. Wilfrid Meynell and the editor of
Merry England.

Merry England devotes the whole of its October Number to
Cardinal Newman as a memorial of the fortieth anniversary of his”
reception into the Catholic Church. That great event took place
on the ninth of October, 1845. The Memorial Number contains
four portraits of John Henry Newman at different periods of his
life, together with a facsimile of the Cardinal’s letter of thanks
to Mrs. R. F. Murphy of Dublin who had sent to him the copy
of his “ Dream of Gerontius” which was filled with pencil-marks
by General Gordon at Khartoum and given by him as a keepsake
to Mrs. Murphy’s brother, Frank Power, who shared the chivalrous
soldier’s fate. An account of Dr. Newman’s conversion is followed
by a collection of his letters to various persons and then by a
collection of the dedications of various books inscribed to him.
Many of these are illustrated by very interesting notes, and the
whole winds up with a summary of the chief events in the Cardi-
nal’s wonderful career.

The October omissions, therefore, of Mr. John Oldcastle are
merely a few items which might have been inoluded in his pro-

The October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle. 583

gramme. For instance, to the affectionate dedication in which Dr.
Newman offered the new edition of “ Loss and Gain” to Dr.
Russell—whose successor in the presidentship of Maynooth Col-
lege has just been made Archbishop of Dublin with universal
acclaim—there might naturally have been appended as a footmote
this passage from the Apologia pro Vita Sua.

“My dear friend, Dr. Russell, the present President of Maynooth, had
perhaps more to do with my conversion than anyone else. He called upon me
in passing through Oxford in the summer of 1841. . . , Ido not recollect
that he said a word on the subject of religion, He sent me at different times
several letters; he was always gentle, mild, unobtrusive, uncontroversial, He
let me alone.”

‘When the Apologia appeared in 1863 in parts week after week
for many weeks—to give Kingsley, it was said, some idea of eternal
punishment—this passage excited in the present writer feelings
which revealed themselves partly in rhyme. Here are a few lines
out of many :—

And what high privilege, dear Friend, was thine,
Guiding Faith’s pilgrim to her one true shrine!
Pilgrim far-famed, in whom God deigned to see

Fit instrament for work sublime—to be

For many in our day and through all days

‘Himself a guide from out the dreary maze

Of error and half-truth and crumbling creede—
Himeelf a “Note” for all whom candour leads.

Not such as he grope blindly in God's sight

From light to darkness, but from dark to light,
When helped by such as thou. Had he not all

‘The faculties, the graces which might call

God's blessing on his painful years of thought

And prayer and study? Found he what he sought P
Happy who have so much to sacrifice,

Happy who buy the pearl at such a price!

Rare intellect, rich culture, marvellous pen,

‘A gently potent sway o’er thinking men—

Humble and pare. his tale proclaims anew,

‘¢ The clean of heart have eyes to see the True.”

We suspect strongly that if the 350th page of the ninth
volume of this “Irish Monruty” had come under Mr, John
Oldcastle’s eye while he was compiling the October Number of
Merry England, he would have joined with Father Ryder’s three
excellent sonnets “to Father Newman on his elevation, to the

684 The October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle,

Cardinalate,” the sonnets, also excellent and three also in number,
which were written by Sister Mary Stanislaus on the Cardinal’s
eightieth birthday, February 21st, 1881; and very probably,
according to his wont, he would have told us in the discreet privacy
of a footnote that this Irish Dominican nun is the daughter of our
sweet Irish poet, Denis Florence Mac Carthy. As magazine
readers cannot be expected to go back from our thirteenth to our
ninth volume, we may reprint here this bygone page of our
own.

« Thus would I have him to remain,” was said
Long since of one, the favourite of his Lord ;—
‘And so the others passed to their reward,

Rejoicing—while on John’s beloved head

‘Well nigh a hundred slow-paced winters shed
Their snowy blossoms. Why this exile bard P
Not his the flock of Christ to lead and guard,

But his to nourish with the Word’s own bread.

Evangelist and doctor, priest and seer,

To pray, to teach, to write, he lingered here,
‘When Peter's self, when Mary passed above.

His the deep Future, the eternal Past—

‘Yot hear his single lesson at the last :

“Love, O my dear ones; little children, love!”

“A dreary gift of years” Ah! such, in sooth,
Seems thine, dear Father, kept beyond thy time
Gone are the comrades of thy early prime;

Long gone the loved companions of thy youth;

And even those who followed thee, like Ruth,
Choosing to share thy worship and thy clime,
No longer darkly but in light sublime

See all made plain, ere thou, their guide to Truth.

So ewiftly now men live their lives away ;
Almost two generations thou hast seen

Rise in their vigour, culminate, and wane,

And thou ’mong men a type of what has been,

Lone 'mid their reverent love, dost fiat say

To Him who wisely wills thee to remain.

Oh, yes, remain! So myriad voices pray
Ad multos annos!—far the echo rings.
Thou hast more subjects than the mightiest kings,
And all who own thy gentle, potent sway
Are calling down a blessing on this day.
But, while they wish thee all God’s choicest things,
From heart to lips one reservation springs—

The October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle. 585

‘We cannot spare thee yet; dear Father, stay!
Stay for our eakes—to be the joy, the pride
Of thine elected Church, thy native land ;
Ob! stay to be the bescon-light to guide
More storm-tossed pilgrims to the welcome strand.
Long may we greet thee on thy natal day—
‘We cannot spare thee yet—dear Father, stay !”

As we have ventured to link the foregoing sonnets with the
amiable memory of our friend Denis Florence MacCarthy, we
may add a circumstance which we heard lately and which relates
to the present subject. When “The Dream of Gerontius”
appeared first, a Dublin priest who carried it about with
him always, meeting Mr. MacCarthy, asked him what he
thought of it. “The finest thing in the English language since
Milton!”

In the division ‘of Mr. John Oldcastle’s Newman Miscellany
which contains the poetical tributes of Father Caswall, Father
Ryder, Mrs. Leathley, and Mr. J.C. Earle, room ought to have
been made for those remarkable sonnets with which the reading of
“The Grammar of Assent” inspired the author of “Christian
Schools and Scholars,” Mother Raphael Drane. We hope that
some of our readers may refer for them to “ Songs in the Night,”
one of the most beautiful volumes of poetry that this century has
produced. But still more pertinent to our purpose is the follow-
ing reverential parody on the most famous of Cardinal Newman’s
short pieces, “ The Pillar of the Cloud,” oftener named from its
opening words, “Lead, kindly Light!” Sister Mary Stanislaus’
poem is dated “ Maunday Thursday, 1879,” and the last line
alludes to the recently conferred cardinal’s hat :

O kindly light, how well thy guiding ray
Has led him on!
With steady beam through all the rugged way
It led him on;
Through thirsty deserts to the boundless sea,
From Egypt's bondage unto liberty !

Step after step, as he himself had prayed,
It led him on :—
‘The future veiled, the near path emoother made,
Thus led him on
Till Doubt’s prolonged Gethsemane was done,
‘And reason, faith, heart, intellect, were one,

586 The October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle.
And, gentle Master, thou thyself since then
Hast

led men on,
By silent prayer and with thy magic pen,
‘Where thou hast gone.
England’s true Moses in these latter days,
But first thyself to tread the new, strange ways.

Oh ! atill for long and happy honoured years
‘Lead thou us on !
‘Till the shades vanish and the day appears,
Lead thou us on,
Till on thy loved and venerable brow
Gleams the full crown whose first rays dawn e'en now.

Under the scriptural title of “A Cloud of Witnesses,” Mr.
Oldcastle introduces with a very felicitous preface a collection of
the dedications with which various writers have laid their best work
at the feet of the Oratorian Cardinal. He omits the dedication pre-
fixed by Dr. W.K. Sullivan (now President of Queen’s College, Cork)
to the two ample tomes containing Eugene O’Curry’s “ Lectures on
the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish:” “To John
Henry Newman, D.D., of the Oratory, these volumes are inecribed,
in acknowledgment of what he did for the advancement of learn-
ing and the encouragement of Irish archeology and history, as
first Rector of the Catholic University of Ireland.” These
volumes are posthumous; but Eugene O'Curry himself has
practically dedicated to Dr. Newman his first volume of “ Lectures
on the Manuscript Materials of early Irish History.” In his
preface he hes this interesting reference to the great man who
became a Catholic just forty years ago:

“There was, however, among my varying audience one constant attend-
ant, whose ‘presence was both embarrassing and encouraging to me— whose
polite expressions at the conclusion of each Lecture I scarcely dared to receive
‘as those of approbation—but whose kindly sympathy practically exhibited
itself, not in mere words alone, but in the active encouragement he never
ceased to afford me as I went along; often, for example, reminding me that I
was not to be uneasy at the apparent shortness of a course of Lectures, the
preparation of which required eo much of labour in 4 new field; and assuring
me that in his eyes, and in the eyes uf those who had committed the University
to his charge, quantity was of far less importance than accuracy in careful
examination of the wide range of subjects which it was my object to digest
and arrange. At the conclusion of the course, however, this great scholar and
pious priest (for to whom can I allude but to our late illustrious Rector, the
Rev. Dr. Newman ?}—whose warmly-felt and oft-expreseed sympathy with
Erin, her wrongs and her hopes, as well as her history, I am rejoiced to have an
opportunity thus publicly to acknowledge—sstonished me by annowncing to me

— on the part of the University, that my poor Lectures were deemed worthy to

Old Letters, 587

‘be published at ite expense. Nor can I ever forget the warmth with which Dr.
Newman congratulated me on this termination of my first course, any more
than the thoughtfulness of a dear friend with which he encouraged and advised
me, during the progress of what was to me so difficult a task, that, left to
myself, I believe I should soon have surrendered it in despair.”

It is unnecessary to remark in conclusion that the collection of
Newmaniana which we are supplementing makes no pretence of
being complete in any of its departments. In no fault-finding
spirit, therefore, but as our individual tribute of gratitude for the
glorious event of which Merry England for October is a pleasant
memorial, the present writer has ventured to supply some of the
October Omissions of Mr. John Oldcastle.”

OLD LETTERS.

NLY a pile of old letters,
Written by long dead hands,
Letters from near ones and dear ones,
Letters from foreign lands ;

Full of affections long withered,

Bright with sweet hopes long decayed,
Teoming with old recollections

In peaceful oblivion long laid.

These ghoats of the past, as I read them,
Before me seem sadly to rise

‘With a message of sorrowful meaning
In the depths of their shadowy eyes.

“ We have passed,” they say, solemn and slowly,
“ We have crumbled away into dust

“ With our sparkle, and beauty, and brightness
“Consumed by the moth and the rust.

« And other bright hopes and sweet visions
« Are hovering round you to-day ;

“But be warned ; even as we have departed,
“Bo, too will they vanish away!” |

* See also the first of the notices of '“ New Books” a little further on,
Vou. xii. No. 149. “4

AN AUTUMNAL LYRIC.
BY RLEANOR 0. DONNELLY.

“ Death is not slow.”—Eco. xrv. 12.

IHE flowers blossom but to fade,
Their brilliant leaves soon scatter’d Be ;

Ah! even so, beloved maid!

Thy roseate graces bloom to die.
‘When eyes grow dim, and locks grow grey,

And cheek and lip their blush forego,
‘When youthful joys with youth decay,

Remember, dear, ‘ Death is not slow!”

nu.

'The golden ears among the corn
Await the sickle, full and fair;
Ab! even thus, must riches born ;
Of earth, of earthly change beware.
O miser, gloating o’er thy gold,
The shining sickle deals its blow:
The light goes out, the air turns cold,
Remember well, “ Death is not slow!”

m1.

‘The logs upon the open hearth
Burn for a while, and, blazing, shine;
And, then, like many a dream of earth,
Fall into ashes, fast and fine,
O hearta, on fire with glory’s flame,
Mark where the emould’ring embers glow,
And o'er your baseless dreams exclaim :
“Ah! even thns :.‘ Death is not slow!”

( 589 )

AN IRISH NUN IN FOREIGN PARTS.

is often said that the world is growing very bad. There has

always been a great deal of sin and misery in this fallen
world; but the fallen worldghas been redeemed ; and in thousands
and thousands of places{on God’s earth His angels see with delight
the exercise of the highest virtues and the truest heroism. The
heroism which is before my mind at present is that which is dia-
played by so many timid and tender Irish maidens who make a
sacrifice which must be terrible for their affectionate hearts by
breaking the ties of kindred and country and going to the ends
-of the earth to serve God and to save souls in various less favoured
corners of the Church. It is a grace to know many of these, not
in general or as a class, but personally and individually, as we do,
from the most northern habitable parts of North America to almost
the most southern parts of South America—in Australia, New
Zealand, Newfoundland, Java, China, everywhere!

As a sample I venture to quote from a letter dated “ Convent
of the Good Shepherd, Quito, August 24th, 1884.” The exiled
Trish maiden begins: “ My own dear mother, no doubt you num-
ber your little Mary among the dead, it is so long since you heard
from me. Though I have been silent, I have not forgotten you in
my prayers, and I always have your interests at heart. Iam going
to give you an outline of what has happened since I wrote from
New Orleans. You see I have flown from the sunny South still
further south, even to the top of the wild and rugged Andes.”

We are not told how long Sister Mary of Calvary had sojourned
in the beautiful capital of Louisiana ; but to break whatever tendrils
her heart might have put forth{and to prepare for such an utter
change, such a revolution as we shall see described, she got no
other (at least immediate) warning than a,telegram which reached
at two o'clock on the 15th September, 1881, and which she obeyed
k& packing up and catchinglithe fivezo’clock train the same day.

had summoned her to St. Louis, the convent where
the had made her noviceship. This merely preliminary little trip
occupied two days and two nights of continuous railway travelling.

“One of our Sisters had been at the station-house waiting for
me from early morning. After’a few minutes’ ride in the street-
cars I beheld once more my dear Noviciate and Mother Provincial
receiving me into her great motherly arms. ‘I am going to make

590 An Irish Nun in Foreign Parts.

you a little soldier of Christ—I am going to send you to Quito.”
It was no small pleasure to be able to see again that dear Mother
and to enjoy for a few days the sweet society of those cherished
companions of my noviciate. After six days’ stay in St. Louis I
left for Chicago accompanied by Mother Provincial. In Chicago
three Sisters joined me, and after three days we four started for
New York where two more volunteered for the foreign mission of
Quito. There also we remained a few days to rest and prepare
for our long and tedious journey over seas and mountains.

“ On Friday, September 30th, 1881, we sailed from New York,
and on the following Monday week we landed in Aspinwall, where
we took the train, and in four hours we arrived in Panama. The
trees and plants that grew along the road showed that the land
must be rich and fertile; but we saw no houses except a few cabins
out of which came tawnies with a very slothful, neglected
look.

«At Panama we went straight to the residence of the Bishop,
who received us in a most fatherly way. He confided us to the
kind care of the Sisters of Charity during the two or three days
that we were kept waiting for the steamer for Guayaquail. There
we landed, after three days’ voyage, on the 16th of October, thank-
ful to bid farewell to all our sea-journeys.

“ Guayaquail, though the seaport of the Republic of Equador,
is but a small town. The fever makes great havoc there, especially
among strangers. It seemed like a miracle that none of uscaught
it, although obliged to remain there ten days.

“Next came our tedious and dangerous journey across the
mountains. They can only be crossed on horseback. The fatigue
and weariness of that journey cannot be expressed. Just imagine
eight days of slow riding over those bleak and lonely mountains.
Each night as we dismounted, unable to put a foot under us, we
thought that certainly the next morning we should be unable to
continue our journey; but, when morning came, our Lord gave us
new strength and courage. In some places the path is only a foot
and a half wide; on one side frightful precipices some hundred
feet deep, on the other high and rugged cliffs. When we met
travellers in some of the narrow passages, the peril was ao great
that I had to shut my eyes and let the mule take his own way, as
he knew the road better than we did. In other places all we could
do was to keep from falling over the animals’ heads, for it seemed
like going down a steep staircase. Though it was dangerous and

wearisome in the extreme, yet the scenes from the summit of those

An Irish Nun in Foreign Parts. 591

lofty mountains were very grand and beautiful. One in particular
I can never forget. It was our second evening in the mountains,
going up and around and around like a gigantic winding stairs.
Looking down from our height we saw far below us a great white
cloud which filled up the valleys between the mountains, leaving
only their peaks to be seen which appeared like great ships at
anchor in an ocean of foam ; and as the sun, slowly sinking in the
west, shed its rays of many colours over this airy ocean, it produced
an effect beautiful beyond conception. Just imagine, we have been
higher than the clouds! We passed close by Cotopaxi and through
the ashes that but a few years ago it vomited from its burning
breast, causing death to many—close by Chimborazo with its
freezing air and snow-crowned head. In some months of the
year it is impossible to pass here, the winds are sostrong. A few
weeks before we passed, two gentlemen with their horses were
swept off and smashed to pieces. Amid all these perils I felt not
the least afraid. I knew our Lord would protect us, as we were
acting under obedience and the journey was undertaken for His
glory. When we were leaving Chicago, a holy Jesuit assured us
that, if we perished, we should gain the martyr’s crown. But we
were not so lucky, for after eight days of ups and downs we arrived
safe but aching all over, devoutly thankful to find ourselves once
more within the sacred precincts of our convent-home. You see
dear mother, that my brother's fears have been well-nigh realised :
he said one time that I would not stop till I wentto the end of the
earth. When we were in St. Louis, we considered Quito as the
most distant part of our mission, on account of the great length
and the great dangers of the journey.

“Tike this place very much. It is said to have an eternal
spring—not like your spring at home: that is but a time of leaves
and flowers ; here we have fresh buds, flowers, and ripe fruits on
the same tree at the same time, and flowers of the rarest kind all
the year round. As Quito is almost upon the equator, we never
have any winter. From here can be seen in the distance four
mountains whose summits are always covered with snow. Were
it not for these and the surrounding mountains, we should never
be able to stand the heat, as we have the sun almost straight over
our heads. We have but two seasons here, and the only difference
between them is that in one the rain falls in torrents, and in the
other everything is dry. In this season the thunder rolls furiously
through the mountains, and the lightning sometimes strikes
people dead. We have an occasional earthquake to tell us to be
always ready for eternity.

592 Providence.

“Spanish is the only language spoken here. It was very amusing”
to hear us trying to speak it atfirst. Necessity obliged us to learn
it as quickly as possible, as no priest could be found to hear our
confessions in English. Now we can all speak it pretty well.”

. . . ° .

The good nun winds up with minute and affectionate
inquiries about all sorts of persons and things. “ My dear little
brother, I want you to give me a full account of how things are
going on at the old castle, that cherished cradle of my childhood,
where I first learned the holy traths of our religion, and where
God spoke to my heart, filling it with a disgust for everything that
passes with time.” She bids them tell her schoolmistress that she
considers her one of the guardian angels of her youth. “ Send me
some shamrocks from dear father’s grave.” Her next letter will,
no doubt, esk for shamrocks from the grave of her mother: for
the pious Christian matron whose prayers and solid training helped
to secure for her child so brave a vocation has died during the too
long interval that has elapsed since a kind priest borrowed for us
the much prized letter of her missionary daughter, Sister Mary of
Calvary.

PROVIDENCE.

HY ways, O God, are wondrous; in the shower
The eplendour of the sun the rainbow shows;
‘And, when the night is dark, more brightly glows
Heaven’s gold and silver star-omblazon’d bower.

The path of dawn is through the darkest hour ;
And from the briar is born the perfumed rose ;
The cold, that kills the buds, creates the snows

That shield the tender germs of fruit and flower.

The deepest languor brings the deepest sleep,
That leads through death-like chambers into light,
‘Where eyes more clearly see that erst did weep.

Thus darker death shall lead to lands so bright
‘That nought of gloom can o'er their gladness eweep:
‘We'll seek Thee nearest then when all seems night !
Kinrgnerey Lewis.

( 693 )

NEW BOOKS.

Is reading lately or at least looking over one of Eugene O’Curry’s
learned books on the literature of ancient Ireland, we noted a Passage
which reviewers might take to heart, especially as O'Curry says it is
“perhaps the oldest piece of pure Gaedhilic writing in existence.”
The Book of Dimma, it seems, ends with these deprecatory words :
“I beseech for me, as the price of my labour, that I be not venomously
criticieed, and the residence of the heavens.” Authors are guaranteed
against venomous criticism in these pages; may the rest of the prayer
of the old Celtic scribe be verified in them !

In some earlier pages of this magazine, the present writer has said
his say about the Cardinal Newman Number of Merry England.

. Many editions of that Number have been exhausted, and Mr. John
Oldcastle’s very interesting compilation has now appeared as a sub-
stantive independent work under the title of “Catholic Life and
Letters of Cardinal Newman,” produced very tastefully for half-a-
crown, and with sumptuous elegance for half-a-guinea.

A new and cheaper yet extremely elegant edition has appeared of
“A Saint among Saints: a Sketch of the Life of Saint Emmelia,
Mother of Saint Basil the Great,” by 8. M.8., whose name may be
given in full as Sister Mary Stanislaus. To this edition, which is
published by M. H. Gill and Son, the following words of unnecessary
recommendation have been prefixed :—

“ A large edition of this work has been received so favourably by the public
that a new issue has been for some time required.

“Though this success has rather distressed than gratified the religious
modesty of the Author, she will forgive it when it is linked with a memory
which Ireland will always cherish affectionately. Such a link is formed by the
circumstance alluded to by our other illustrious poet, Aubrey de Vere, in the
note prefixed to his beautiful sonnets on the next leaf.

“What Denis Florence Mac Carthy did for the fame of St. Brendan in
verse, his Dominican daughter has done in graceful prose for St. Emmelia.”

The publishing firm of Cassell and Company, with establishments
so far apart as London, Paris, New York, and Melbourne, continues
to add to its immense stock of books in every department of literature.
One of its series of publications consista of bright and handsome
volumes, giving each in some two or three hundred pages a chatty
account of a country, illustrated by a vast number of excellent pictures
of scenes in the country described. The latest of these sent to us is
“A Ramble round France by J. Chesney.” It is admirably done. It
will give young people most useful information in a very agreeable

594 Notes on New Books.

way; and there is not one of those offensive phrases which sometimes
slip from the pens of even well-intentioned writers when describing
Catholic countries.

“One Angel More in Heaven” (Benziger) appropriately bound in
white vellum, is a little book of consolations for mothers who have
sent little angels to heaven. Though St. Francis de Sales is drawn
upon, there is nothing better here than the letters of Father Joseph
Farrell which were placed first in our “ Relics of a Certain Professor ’””
in the October number of this Magazine. Yet better still is the com-
fort offered in the Ave Maria, to one who had lost her only daughter,
a child of seven years. These beautiful lines are written by Father
Edmund of the Heart of Mary, now working as a Passionist at
Buenos Ayres, once known in New York as the Rev. Benjamin Hill :—

I mourn with you—but not your child ;
I weep with you—but not for her.
How should I grieve that one eo blest
Has enter’d her eternal rest P
That one ao sweet, so undefiled,
Shall never walk with feet that err?

Bat you—woep on! A mother’s tears
‘Are sacred ever, nor can wrong
The holiest dead. And well I know
How keen, dear friend, your bosom’s woe.
The sunshine of your widow'd years,
‘You fondly hoped would cheer them long,

Has vanish'd. Ay, 'tis saddest loss!
But God will make it greater gain.
‘His grace was with you when you knew
‘Thus she must go, yet, staunchly true
To duty, took the proffer'd Cross ;
Then kmelt beside the bed of pain,

No longer to avert death’s stroke,
But rather woo ite kind release.
“0 dearest Mother, ere J tell
Thie decade, let my darling dwell
In Heav'n with thee!” ... "Twas heard.® She woke
To meet God's amile of perfect peace.

‘An earnest of that peace was yours,
Brave mother, as you bow’d and eaid,
“My God, I give Thee back my child!”
Ab, surely, then on you He emiled,
And blest with purpose that endures
“Your upward yearning, sorrow-led,

* This is what actually ocurred.

Notes on New Books. 595

For nobler life. More grace, and more,
‘Awaits, the promised crown to gem.
‘What sanctifies like loving sorrow,
For faith’s to-day and hope’s to-morrow ?
"Twas Calvary brought our Queen a store
Of richer joy than Bethlehem—

Of richer joy. For Her true Heart”
‘Through all its Dolors’ wave on wave,
Still eang “ Magnificat !” and atill
Rejoiced in God's exacting will:
Deserving thus Her royal part
In Easter’s triumph o’er the grave.

And you, dear friend, ev'n here may know
A foretaste of the bliss to come:
Hold commune with your child, and prove
A tender, ever-watchful love,
Which will not fail, but daily grow—
So you draw daily uearer Home.

Messrs. Cornish and Sons, the well-known London booksellers, and
Mesers Combridge and Co., of 18 Grafton-street, Dublin, whose name
we here notice for the first time on a titlepage, are the publishers of an
extremely handsome volume entitled “ Celtic Irish Songs and Song-
writers. A Selection, With an Introduction and Memoirs. By
Charles MacCarthy Collins, M.R.I.A., Barrister-at-law.” The pub-
lishers have done their part admirably, and for so large and so well-
bound a book printed so excellently on such good paper we consider
five shillings a very moderate price. Mr. Collins deserves credit for
his choice of such a subject, and for the zeal he has brought to bear
upon it; but we are not altogether satisfied with his system or in some
places with his tone. A terser style and a more economical type would
have condensed with great advantage Mr. Collins’s introductory and
biographical matter. Many writers, of whom nothing is told, might
have a line or two devoted to them. Most of the larger notices could
easily have been crushed into a quarter of a page, as in Gavan Duffy's
perfectly edited ‘Ballad Poetry of Ireland,” which is a model for all
such collections, the first and in many respects the best of its class.
Mr. Collins ends with the year 1870—which accounts for the absence
of Denis Florence MacCarthy. Was Richard Henry Wilde, who
wrote “ My Life is like Summer Rose,” an Irishman? A word or two
ought to have been said about him. Why is Dolman’s Magasine called
an Irish journal at page 96? It is ungrateful to find any faults in a
book which gives such an array of Irish lyrics in so attractive a garb.
‘We hope a second volume may follow, containing the Anglo-Irish Song-
writers—such as Goldsmith, Davis, Lover, Lefanu, and Sir Samuel

Ferguson.

596 Notes on New Books.

Dr. Maurice Hime, Head-master of Foyle College, has published
recently two works of very distinct sim and character. One of them
we pass over with the remark that our readers can have no concern
with the subject of religion treated by a Protestant layman, however
excellent the writer's intentions may be. ‘A Schoolmaster’s Retro-
epect of Eighteen and a Half Years in an Irish School,” contains a
great many useful hints for those engaged in the work of education.
Five closely printed pages at the end of the book are devoted to
eulogies on Dr. Hime’s “ Masonic Hints” from which it is plain that
the Head Master of Foyle College is an ardent propagandist of Free-
masonry. At what age are young lads eligible for membership in that
mysterious organisation, which is said to exercise a sinister influence
in the police and higher official circles? It is strange that such men
as the author of “ Unbelief” should tolerate any solidarity with conti-
nental freemasonry, which is confessedly a power on the side of
irreligion.

The Rev. Charles Coppens, S.J., Professor of the University of
Bt. Louis in the United States, has published a full and methodical
treatise on “The Art of Oratorical Composition, based upon the pre-
cepts and models of the old masters” (New York: Catholic Publica-
tion Society). In spite of the statement on the titlepage Daniel
Webster is quoted as often perhaps as Cicero; and no wonder if the
praise of Dr. Brownson was not a ridiculous exaggeration : “ As an
orator Mr. Webster has all the terseness of Demosthenes, the grace
and fulness of Cicero, the fire and energy of Chatham, and a dignity
and repose peculiarly his own.” Young men, with a taste for careful
composition and for what is irreverently termed “spouting,” will find
Father Coppens’ work a rich storehouse of principles, suggestions,
and examples, which will interest them as mere reading, and benefit
them greatly in as far as they are able to reduce theory to practice.

One branch of the subject of the American Jesuit’s large treatise
which we have just introduced to our readers has been treated very
briefly by the Rev. Arthur Ryan, Professor of Sacred Eloquence in St.
Patrick's College, Thurles, in “Some Notes on Popular Preaching,”
written for the theological students of that college (Dublin: M. H. Gill
& Sons). In forty-four pages Father Ryan puts forward a great number
of excellent practical suggestions in a lively style, which, however,
did not call for quite so plentiful a sprinkling of “ those crooked little
things that ask questions.” We agree heartily with all that is here
said about the importance of learning how to divide a sermon or any
other composition into paragraphs. Indeed one might do well to aim
at thinking in paragraphs, nay at ving in paragraphs—rounding out
each paragraph to its full musical perfection.

€597.)

AN UNPUBLISHED LETTER OF CARLYLE'S.

TI'EE subjoined letter from Thomas Carlyle to Mr. Duffy (now

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy) will, we have no doubt, be read
with great interest. The “small-type department” referred to
is the “ Answers to Correspondents” which were in fact written
mainly though not exclusively by Mr. Duffy himself. They were
also occasionally made by him the medium of giving to the public
some of the most striking contributions in prose and verse.

As the “Inis Monrnty” lately laid before its readers
some of these “ Answers to Correspondents,” there is a peculiar
appropriateness in publishing this letter in itscolumns. The book
sent by Mr. Carlyle was his “ Past and Present,” and the book
which Mr. Duffy had sent to Mrs. Carlyle was the first edition of
“The Ballad Poetry of Ireland.”

* * * *
“ OHRLSEA,
“ October 25,1845.
“My DEAR Sm,

“Will you accept of this book from me, which probably you
have already examined but may put now on your shelves as a symbol of regards
that will not be unwelcome to you,

“For a good while back, especially in Inte weeks during a rustication in
Scotland, I have read punctually your own part, or what I understand to be
such, of The Nation newspaper, and always with a true sympathy and assent.
There reigns in that small type department a manfulness, veracity, good sense
and dignity which are worthy of all approbation. Of the much elsewhere that
remains extranevus to me, and even afifictive to me, I will here say nothing. When
‘one reflects how in the history of this world the noblest human efforts have had to
take the most confused embodiments and tend to a beneficent eternal goal by
courses they were much mistaken in,—why should we not be patient oven with
Repeal ! You, I will with little qualification bid persevere, and prosper, and wish
all Ireland would listen to you more and more. ‘The thing you intrinsically mean
is what all good Irishmen and all good men must mean ; let it come quickly and
continue for ever. Your coadjutors also shall perrevere under such conditions as
they can, and grow clearer and clearer according to their faithfulness in these.

“My wife, while 1 was absent, received a little book from you with much
thankfulness, and answered with light words, she says, in profound ignorance
of the great afflictions just then lying heavy on you which had made such a tone:
very inappropriate. Forgiveness for thie—you may believe always that there is
true sympathy with you here, a hearty good-will for you here.

“When you come to London again, fail not to let us see you. If I ever
visit Ireland, yours is a house I will seek out.

“With many wishes and regarde,
« Yours very sincerely,
“T. CantYLg
“C. G. Duffy, Esq.”

( 598 )

A VALIANT SOLDIER OF THE CROSS.
‘BY THE AUTHOR OF “LEAVES FROM THE ANNALS OF THE SISTERS OF MERCY.””

NN describing scenes over which mine eye has wandered, I have
kept so faithfully to the land of thesun, where winter seldom
or never leaves his icy footprints, that my discursive papers
were not improperly styled “Southern Sketches.” Yet other
latitudes in America are not wholly unknown tome. Month after
month have I gazed on the white monotony of unthawing snow.
No one could admire more than I the chaste beauty of the feathery
flakes, or the gorgeous sparkle of trees bereft of leaves and covered.
with crystals that flashed every hue of the rainbow. But even in
this bright September day, with the mercury among the eighties,
I get chilled through and through, and shake with the “ shivers”
when I imagine myself once more among the hard frosts of New
Hampshire. Unlike the brave soldier of Christ whom I am about
to introduce to the readers of the “Iriso MoNTHLY,” and who
found the heat of a short northern summer simply “intolerable,”
the tropics and their environs ratherallureme. True, soldiers and
old residents speak of places between which and the lower regions
there is but a sheet of non-combustible tissue paper. Nevertheless,
the writer who has lived in both places would rather, as a matter
of choice, summer in the Tropics than winter in New Hampshire.
Though this state, in which my hero passed the greater part of
his holy life, be the Switzerland of America, a grandly beautiful
section full of picturesque rivers, tall mountains, and dreamy look-
ing lakes, attracting more tourists than any other place in America
save Niagara, yet I will pass over its stern and rugged scenery to
write of a man whose titles to our admiration are wholly of the
supernatural order.

To me, the finest landscape is but a painted picture unless a
human being enliven it. Just one fisherwoman on a sandy beach,
or a lone shepherd on a bleak hill-side, and fancy can weave a
drama of hope, and love, and beauty about either. Faith tells of
a beautiful immortal soul imprisoned in forms gaunt and shrunken ;
a prayer that we may meet again in heaven surges up in my heart.
The landscape is made alive for me in the twinkling of an eye, and
stretches from this lower world to the better and brighter land
-above. Father MacDonald was for forty-one years the light of a

A Valiant Soldier of the Cross. 599

manufacturing town. And when I think of its looms, and spindles,
and fire-engines, and forests of tall, red chimneys, and tens of
thousands of operatives, Father MacDonald is the figure which
illumines for me the weird and grimy spectacle, and casta over it
a halo of the supernatural. Little cared he for the sparkling rivers,
or bewitching lakes, or romantic mountains of the granite state :
his whole interest was centred in souls.

Some fifty years ago, Irish immigrants began to come timidly,
and in small numbers, to the little manufacturing town of Man-
chester which rises on both sides of the laughing waters of the
Merrimac. Here, in the heart of New Hampshire, one of the
original thirteen states, and a stronghold of everything non-Catho-
lic, these poor but industrious aliens knocked at the gates of the
Puritan® for work. Strong and willing arms were wanted; and
Bishop Fitzpatrick, of Boston, learning that some hundreds of
Catholics working in the Manchester factories were sighing for the
ministrations of a parish, sent Father MacDonald, in July 1644,
to take charge of their spiritual interests.

William MacDonald was born in the county Leitrim, in 1813,
being the youngest of a family of six sons and one daughter,
whose parents were John MacDonald and Winifred Reynolds.
‘The now aged daughter is the sole survivor of this large family.
They were very strictly brought up by their virtuous, pious parents, '
and, through long and chequered lines, were upright, honourable
citizens, and thoroughly practical Catholics. Years ago, the writer
was told that no descendant of Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald had ever
seen the inside of a non-Catholic school. Charles and William
became priests, the former emigrating when quite young. William
attended the school of his native parish, where he received a solid
rudimentary education, after which he pursued his classical studies
in Dublin. In 1883, he joined his brother Charles who was pastor
of a church at Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Father
Charles died in his prime, with a high reputation for sanctity.
William always carried about him a little Latin Imitation of
Christ, which had also been the cade mecum of his beloved brother.
The spiritual life of both was formed in that wonderful book,‘’and
Father William was wont to prescribe a suitable chapter in the
same for every mental trouble, difficulty, or temptation referred
to him.

* The Irish Catholic names, Sullivan and Carroll, are sfamped on two of
the ten counties of New Bampehire, in memory of Revolutionary heroes,

600 A Valiant Soldier of the Cross.

Father MacDonald’s education was finished in the College of
‘Three Rivers, Canada, under the Sulpician Fathers. After his
ordination he exercised the ministry in several places till sent by
the Bishop of Boston to Manchester. Here he found his
co-religionists and countrymen regarded as Helots, and far more
despised by Yankee and Puritan than the alaves in the south by
their rulers. The Irish were denied the privilege of sidewalks,
and obliged, in order to avoid perpetual quarrels, to walk in the
middle of the streets. Wherever they appeared they were hissed
and hooted, and “ blood-hounds of hell” was the affectionate
epithet the ubiquitous small boy bestowed on them. Previous to
Father MacDonald’s arrival, Father Daly, whose parish included
nearly all New Hampshire and Vermont, used to say Mass in
Manchester with unfailing regularity every three months. On
one of these occasions, the floor of the temporary chapel gave way,
and priest, altar, and congregation, were precipitated into the
cellar. Providentially, beyond a few bruises and abrasions, no one
was injured. The previous day, the bigots having heard that Mase
was to be said in the room, had cut the supports from under the
floor.

To these people, a priest was an object of hatred and scorn
whom they believed it would be a good work to kill, and Father
MacDonald settled among them at the:risk of his life. But when
duty was in question, he knew not fear. The servant is not greater
than his master, he would say: If they have persecuted me they will
persecute you also. It was in vain they used every means their
perverse ingenuity suggested to intimidate this dangerous papist.
They even began to like him. Slowly but surely, he won his way
among them, and within a year of his arrival he was able to hire
the Granite Hall as a temporary chapel. In 1849, he built a
church on a square purchased with his own patrimony, at the
corner of Union and Merrimac streeta.

Besides the theological virtues which the “ natives” valued
uot, Father MacDonald possessed all the natural virtues which
they pretend to canonize. He was most frugal. To great objects
he would give royally, but it is doubtful if he ever wasted a dollar.
He sought to live on as little as possible, but it was that he might
have more for the needy. He was industrious ; not a moment of
his day was lost. For many years, he was one of the only two
priests in the State, but when his parochial duties left him a little
leisure, he was seen to handle the trowel and use the broom. He
paid cash for everything he bought, and whoever worked for him

A Valiant Soldier of the Cross. 601

received full pay on the day and hour agreed upon: no cutting
down of rates. If they wished to give to the church, very well,
but they must take their pay from him to the last farthing. He
was neatness personified. The fresh complexion and fine physique
common among his countrymen he did not possess. Barely reach-
ing middle height, his spare form, sharp features, sallow com-
plexion, and keen spectacled eyes, made him look like a son of the
soil. And as for energy, no Yankee ever had more, or perhaps so
much. The non-Catholics knew that his power over his flock was
absolute. But they admitted that his wish, his word, and his
work, were always on the side of order, sobriety, frugality,
and good citizenship.

‘When Father MacDonald’s beautiful church was finished, the
Know-Nothings or Native American Party, by way of celebrating
in a fitting manner the independence of the United States, burst
upon the defenceless Catholics, July 4, tore down their houses,
destroyed their furniture, dragged their sick out of bed into the
streets, and finally riddled the beautiful stained glass windows of
the church. For these damages no compensation was ever made.
An Irishman having some dispute with a native, the latter seized
a monkey-wrench that was near, and killed him. Father
MacDonald asked for justice, but the officials refused to arrest
the murderer. Through his wise counsels, the Catholics, though
boiling with indignation, did not retaliate, and, as it takes two
parties to make a fight, the Know-Nothing excitement having
spent itself, soon subsided. But for years, the Irishmen of Man-
chester and their brave pastor had to take turns at night to guard
the church buildings from sacrilegious hands.

So far from being frightened at the lawlesaness of the mob,
Father MacDonald at the height of the excitement announced a
daring project. He would bring nuns to Manchester, and he called
a meeting of his parishioners to devise ways and means. But, for
the first and last time, they strenuously opposed him. “Is would
be madness. They had frequently heard their employers say they
would never allow a nunnery in the city.” He soon saw that if he
waited for encouragement from any quarter his object would never
be accomplished. He built his convent. It was set on fire when
completed, but he was not to be baffled. He repaired the damages.
Though he declined some compensation offered on this occasion, he
was not slow to express his opinion as to the effect such evidences
of New England culture might have on his beloved and most

602 A Valiant Soldier of the Cross.

generous flock. He invited Sisters of Mercy from Providence
R.I,, and had the pleasure of welcoming them, July 16, 1858.

He received them in his own house, which they mistook for
their convent. Great was their surprise when they heard that the
handsome pillared edifice in the next square was theirs. ‘I will
conduct you thither,” said he, “but first we will visit our Lord in
the church.” The Rev. Mother, M. Frances Warde and the Sisters
admired the exquisite church and the extreme neatness and beauty
of the altar. “No hand,” said he, “but mine has ever touched
that altar. No secular has ever been admitted within the sanctu-
ary rails even to sweep. I myself sweep the sanctuary, and attend
to the cleanliness of everything that approaches the Blessed Sacra-
ment. But my work as sole priest here is now so arduous, that I
will resign this sweet and sacred duty to you.”

Schools were immediately opened for boys, girls, adults. Night
schools and an academy for the higher studies followed. On account
of the superior instruction given in this institution, it has always
been well patronised by the best Protestant families in New Hamp-
shire. Indeed, the success of the Sisters of Mercy in this strong-
hold of Puritanism has been phenomenal. During Father
MacDonald’s incumbency, Catholics increased from a few despised
aliens to more than half the population of Manchester. He was
never obliged to ask them for money, they gave him all he needed.
He never failed to meet his engagements; and in one way or
another every coin he handled went to God’s church or God’s
poor. He laid up nothing for himself. He had the most exalted
ideas of the priesthood, and he carried them out to the letter in
his daily life. Thousands of young men have been enrolled in
his sodalities. As an example to them, he totally abstained from
tobacco and from intoxicating drink. St. John’s Total Abstinence
Society was the pride of his heart. One of his “Sodality Boys,”
Right Rev. Denis Bradley, became first Bishop of Manchester,
and many have become zealous priests. From the girls’ schools
and the sodalities, too, many religious vocations have sprung, and
the number of converts under instruction is always very large.
This worthy priest brought free Catholic education within the
reach of every Catholic in his adopted city. As soon as he finished
one good work he began another, and eplendid churches, convents,
schools, orphanage, hospital, home for old ladies, &., remain as
monuments of his zeal. These institutions are not excelled in the
country. They aro all administered by the Sisters of Mercy, to
whom he was a most generous benefactor.

A Faliant Soldier of the Cross. 608

During the forty-one years of Father MacDonald’s life in
Manchester, he never took a vacation but one, which his Bishop
compelled him to take. He was so methodical in the distribution
of his time that it was said he did the work of six priests, and did
it well. He knew every member of his flock, and was to all friend
and father as well as priest, their refuge in every emergency.
Every day he studied some point of theology, visited his schools
and other institutions, and went the rounds of his sick and poor.
Every home had its alloted duty, and grave, indeed, should be the
reasons that could induce him to deviate one iota from his ordinary
routine. His charities were unbounded, yet given with discrimi-
nation, nor did his left hand know what his right hand gave. With
the sick and the aged, he was like a woman, or a mother. He would
make their fires, warm drinks for them, see that they had sufficient
covering. Though they all doated on “Father Mac,” they must
not thank him, or even pretend they saw what he was doing for
them, so well did they know that he worked solely for Him who
seeth in secret. Monday, August 24, 1885, this holy man was stricken
with paralysis of the brain, and died two days later, while the
Bishop and the Sisters of Mercy were praying for his soul. It is
almost certain that he had some presentiment of his death, as he
selected the Gregorian Requiem Mass for his obsequies, and asked
the choir to practise it. August 28, his sacred remains were com-
mitted to the earth, the funeral sermon being preached by the
Bishop who had been as a son to the venerable patriarch. In real,
personal holiness, Father MacDonald possessed the only power that
makes the knee bend. Over twenty years ago, his sexton said to
the writer: “I never opened the church in the morning that I did
not find Father MacDonald kneeling before the Blessed Sacra-
ment.” What time he entered it, no one knew. How edifying
this must have been to the poor factory hands who were wont to
beg God’s blessing on their daily labour, in the short, scorching
summer and the bitter cold of the long winter, for at that time
the church was not heated. Never did these children of toil miss
that bent and venerable form, absorbed in prayer before the
hidden Jesus, of whose august presence he had such a vivid
realisation.

Before such a life of toil and prayer, no bigotry could stand.
By sheer force of virtue alone, this holy man wrought a complete
change in the sentiments of his adversaries. Hence the extraordi-
nary respect shown to his memory. The non-Catholic press says
that no man ever exercised so much influence in Manchester for forty

Vou. x1ut., No, 149. 45

604 A Valiant Soldier of the Cross.

years as Father MacDonald, and that he was the man whom Man-
chester could least afford to lose. The mayor and the city govern-
ment attended his obsequies in a body, and the governor of New
Hampshire wrote to express his regret that absence hindered his
paying the last tribute of respect to a priest he so highly revered.
Business was suspended and all the factories closed, that the whole
city might follow his remains to the tomb. On Sunday, August
30, the non-Catholic pulpits of the thrifty city resounded with the
praises of this humble priest, whose chief characteristics were
stainless integrity, an entire absence of human respect, burning
zeal for God’s glory, and life-long efforts to promote it. He feared
no man and sought the favour of none, and his noble indepen-
dence of character won him the admiration of all who had the
privilege of knowing him. His death was universally deplored as
the greatest calamity that ever befell Manchester. Among the
Protestant ministers who eulogised him in their sermons, August
30, was Rev. Dr. Spalding, who thanked God for raising up a
man whose life was remarkable “for its large consecration to
Church and people, for its high earnestness, its sacrifices and
unselfishness, its purity and truthfulness. God grant unto us all,”
he continued, “ desire to imitate this life in its devotion to others,
and its trust in Him!”

Asa preacher, Father MacDonald was rather solid than brilliant.
In manner he was somewhat blunt. He conversed pleasantly and
sensibly, but people given to gossip or foolish talk soon learned to
steer clear of him. Hospitality was with him a Christian duty.
If he heard that some ecclesiastic was at the hotel—and he heard
everything—he would at once go for him, and place his own neat,
comfortable house at his disposal. “ Many a time,” he would say,
“has a young priest acquired a taste for card-playing by spending
but one night ina hotel.” So fearful was he of the least thing
that might disedify the weaklings of his flock, that, when the
writer knew him, he was accustomed to send to Boston for altar
wine. “If I buy it here,” he said, “some poor fellows will think
I don’t practise what I preach. They will want stimulants as well
as I. Even the people who sell will never think of altar wine.”
Father MacDonald had a great love for the south. Its material
advancement gave him pleasure, but his chief interest lay in its
spiritual progress. Six years ago, the writer met him after an
interval of sixteen years, After the usual greetings, he began to
question : ‘‘ Now, tell me, how is religion in New Orleans! Are
the priests zealous? Have you a live Bishop? Are the public

A Valiant Soldier of the Cross. 605

institutions well attended by priests and religious? But, above
and before all else, are your Catholic children all in Catholic
schools? And have you superior schools, so that children will
have no excuse for going to the godless schools How are the
Masses attended? Are the people well-instructed? Do many
lead lives of piety?” He was then in his sixty-seventh year,
rather broken from incessant labours, but as active as ever. His
hair had changed from black to white since last wemet. When I
gave some edifying details, he would say: “God be praised. I
am so glad of what you tell me. Thanks be to God.” And he
called the attention of a young priest at the other end of the room :
“Listen! Hear what they are doing in the south for the school-
children, and the waifs and street arabs. And all that is done for
the sick and the prisoners. Oh, blessed be God! How happy all
this makes me! ”

I felt as though I were listening to St. Alfonso, so irresistibly
did this remind me of him. I was no longer among the crisp
snows of New Hampshire that had crackled beneath my feet that
morning. Fancy had transported me to the genial clime of
Naples. I stood by the bed-ridden Bishop of St. Agatha, in the
old Redemptorist convent at Pagani, and listened to the touching
dialogue between Mauro, the royal architect, and the saint : “ And
the churches in the city of Naples, are they much frequented P
O yes, Monsignor, and you cannot imagine the good that results
from this. All classes, especially the working people, crowd them,
and we have saints even among the coachmen.” At these words
the saint rose from his recumbent position, and cried out in tones
of joy and triumph: “Saintly coachmen at Naples! Gloria
Patri.” He could not sleep for joy at this intelligence, but during
the night would frequently call for his attendant: “You heard
what Don Mauro said? Saints among the coachmen at Naples!
What do you think of that?” Associated in our mind with the
great St. Alfonso, we keep this holy priest, whom Bishop Bradley
so justly styled, “the pioneer of Catholic education in New
England.” His flock universally regarded him as a saint, and a
great saint. And, in all humility, and in perfect submission to the
decrees of Holy Church, the writer is able to say, of her own know-
ledge and observation, that this humble, hard-working, mortified
Irish priest, William MacDonald, practised in a high, a very high,
degree, every virtue which we venerate in the saints of God. I
never met a holier soul. I could not imagine him guilty of the
amallest wilful fault. I feel more inclined to pray to him than

“606 < Gerald Griffin. .

for him, it seems incredible that he should have anything to
expiate in purgatory. May his successors walk in his footsteps,
and his children never forget the lessons he taught them more by
example than by word. May our friendship, a great grace to me,
be renewed in requie eterna et in luce perpetua. Amen.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

EAL heart, and brave right hand that never drew
One false note from thy harp, although the ache
Of weariness and hope deferred might shake
Harsh discords from a soul less clear and true
Than thine amid the gloom that knew no break—
The London gloom that barred the heaven’s blue
From thy deep Celtic eyes, so wide to take
The bliss of earth and sky within their view!
On fleet white wings thy music made its way
Back over the waves to Ireland’s holy shore;
Close nestled in her bosom, each wild lay
Mixed with her sighs—'twas from her deep heart’s core
She called thee: ‘‘Gille Machree’* come home, I pray—
In my green lap of shamrocks sleep, asthore!”
Rose KavanaGu.

*Gille Maohree, “brightener of my heart; ” the name of one of Gerald Griffin's
sweetest songs,

( 607 )

THEN AND NOW.
A LITERARY RETROSPECT.

BY DENNY LANE.
Parr I.

GOOD many years ago Spohr composed a symphony entitled
“ Then and Now,” “ Sonst und Jetzt.” I have never heard
the work, and probably would not understand it ifI did. It is
most likely that I would be very much perplexed and fatigued by
the eternal harmonies of its intricate German music, which do not
reach my heart like those melodies, transient yet immortal, which
we may hear “by Feal’s wave benighted,” or those we listen to
when “ by Banna’s banks we stray,” or those more mournful strains
which by the Moyle “hushed to silence the roar of its water.”
But the title of Spohr’s work interested me. Although I never
heard it, save with my mind’s ears, I have fancied that the then
may have painted in its tone-colour some massive hymn of Aischy-
lus, or in more tender harmonies, the chorus of Sophocles deplor-
ing the woes of blind old Edipus. Or, coming to later times, he
may have taken as his type some of the hymns of the early
Christians, in which it is supposed that the still earlier music of
the Greek modes has, like the bodies of the martyrs, been embalmed
in the odour of holiness. Or for the expression of the olden time,
he may have chosen the folk-music which in Hungary, Spain, or
Ireland the shepherds sung by their flocks, or the warriors chanted
as they tramped to battle ; or, after the fray, the women delivered
as a death dirge or caoine over the corses of the unreturning brave.
Into any of these vases of thought he might have dipped his scallop
shell in order to get a draught of ancient wine. Whether for
his type.of Now, he sought his theme in the ideas of Rossini or
Mozart, or Weber, I cannot guess; but whencesoever he drew the
draught its savour was different from that of the older “ vintage
that had been cool’d for long ages in the deep delved earth.” For
thus describing what I never heard I may be found fault with, but
the example of “ Yarrow unvisited” may be pleaded in extenuation
of “Spohr unheard,” and if some sweet precisians quarrel with me
for speaking on a subject of which I know nothing, I may refer
to those names so multitudinous and bright, who have set me the

608 Then and Now.

example, and, like Moliére’s gens de qualité, know everything with-
out having learned anything.

“Then and Now” is the theme I have selected, and the period
I have chosen for the former is that of the earliest years of your
society.” I have a misty recollection of having, while I am still
a schoolboy, been present when Sir James Shaw Willes, then a
youth not many years older than myself, my cousin Daniel Owen
Madden, Dr. O'Connor, the Rev. M. B. O'Shea, Mr. Richard
Dowden, Mr. Thomas Jennings, Mr. Keleher, and a few others,
proposed the establishment of this society, and I suppose I was an
original member of it. If so,1 believe that my friend Dr. O'Con-
nor and I are the last leaves of that season left on the bough of
this stalwart old tree, and I trust that, even when other genera-
tions, which old Homer compares to the leaves of the forest, have
withered and fallen, this society, like a sturdy old oak, will still
wave in the breeze young and vigorous branches, and with every
recurring year renew all the freshness of its first spring tide. As
well as I recollect, this society was founded in 1834, but as my re-
collections of that time are not quite so distinct, I will ask you to
turn back the hands of the clock only for half a century, and to
suppose that I am speaking to you of the literature and science at
the opening of the Session in 1835, and not 1885. Ido not like to
go back farther, for I did not began to read until comparatively
late in life. I did not learn my letters until I was over six years
old. This was before the era of competitive examinations, before
that “swarmth ” of infant Tassos, Pico di Mirandolas, and learned
Lipsii and the only infant prodigy of that era I remember was that
unfortunate John Stuart Mill, who I have not the slightest doubt
was a child of original genius till his doctrinaire tyrant of a father
drove all the red blood out of his body by excessive teaching. Ifhe
had had the good fortune in his infancy to have been deprived of
his father and left to his mother Nature, there is no knowing what
height so fine so intellect might have risen. Although I did not
begin to read until I was this advanced in life, when I did begin
I, like most of the boys in my set, read with avidity which is the
natural consequence of an empty stomach. School lessons could
be mastered in less time than was appropriated to them in the day
school which I attended, and I read more than one of Scott’s novel
half concealed beneath the bulkier mass of Homer or of Horace.
The gluttonous reader, the helluo librorum was to be found in every

© The Cork Literary and Scientific Society, at the opening of ite fitty-fitet session

Then and Now. 609

school, and the cramming we enjoyed in these days was different
from the cramming which the rising generation now suffers from.
Before I left the school of Dr. Porter, I had therefore a tolerable
knowledge of the literature that was appreciated in our provincial
circle. Of course, I had no acquaintance with the literary progress
of a capital, but when soon after I spent some years in London and
Dublin, I saw that in neither city did there exist the love of, or
the acquaintance with, literature which I found at home. I speak,
of course, of the middle class of society, for here we had no upper
class in the strict sense of the word. We had no peers, nor even
baronets. I do not know whether Deputy Lieutenants had yet
been invented, and a few civic knights were the only representa-
tives of the resident nobility. Even these, I believe, had to earn
their bread by honest industry instead of by robbery, a degradation
unknown to the belted knights of old.

I may mention an instance of the love of literature in this
neighbourhood in the early part of the century. There was no
circalating libraries in our country towns, and instead of the
books going to the people, the people went to the books, which
were too dear for their purses. A copy of a popular romance,
“The Children of the Abbey,” reached Youghal, and in one
house was read aloud to the largest number of people that the
largest room would contain. As soon as the story was finished,
the book was handed over to a messenger to be carried, often in
the dead of night, to another house, where another reader was
ready amidst a throng of listeners to read the story over again ;
and so the book was carried from household to household like the
turf lighted at the Baal fire to kindle and renew the flame. Agair,
even so late as the time when Lalla Rookh first appeared in an expen-
sive quarto edition, a copy was sent as a present to a relative of
mine, and night after night a throng of friends assembled in her
drawingroom, and someone in turn read out the poems and the
connecting narrative until the whole was finished, and then it was
read and re-read again: And here I may remark that the act of
reading aloud was more valued and cultivated than itis now. I
am told that Mr. Martin Farrell, who, before my time, conducted
a celebrated school in Cork, was an admirable reader. At the
preparatory school of Mr. Millikin, where I learned my letters,
reading was carefully attended to, and many a passage of Shake-
speare and Addison was read, and well read, by boys not yet in
their teens. This in itself sowed the seed of literary taste, which
was afterwards developed by the excellent ‘performances of the old

610 Then and Now.

Apollo society—an association started in Cork when the Kilkenny
theatricals had a widespread fame, performances at which, I believe,
Miss O'Neill first made the acquaintance of her future husband,
and our neighbour the late Sir William Wrixon Becher, who was
himself an accomplished amateur. I say eo much to show that in
these days the people of Cork breathed a more stimulating atmos-
phere than they inspire now—an atmosphere quickened by Father
Prout, Dr. Maginn, Callanan, Daniel Owen Madden, O'Shea, and
the many other men who trained here were foremost amongst men in
periodical literature. One of the principal causes which led to
this cultivation was the excellence of the schools which existed in
Cork. I have already mentioned the school of Mr O'Farrell; I
wish to add especially that of Messrs. Hamblin and Porter in Cork,
and that of Mr. Turpin, at Midleton. I believe that out of about
twenty Fellowships in Trinity College, twelve were held by Cork
men, Now it must be remembered that at this period no Catholic
could hold Fellowship or Scholarship or any position higher than
that of a sizar, originally a servitor, and while the city and county
of Cork could not count more than one-twentieth of the Protestant
population, it could count twelve-twentieths of the Fellows of the
only Irish University, a striking proof of the sound training which
the Cork schools imparted to their students, And while I am upon
this subject I may remark upon the very extensive course of classics
which was then requisite for the entrance examination of the Uni-
versity. It comprised in Greek six books of Homer, the Cyropaedia
of Xenophon, Walker's selections from the dialogues of Lucian,
the four Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles in Greek, while in
Latin we had to study six books of Virgil, the satires and epistles
of Horace, all Salust’s works, four satires of Juvenal, and two
plays of Terence, an examination which, although confined to
classics, would, I think, startle a matriculating student of these
latter days, and which far exceeds in importance the whole curri-
culum of the London and other Universities. It is true that the
examiners were not strict, but I can assert that several of my class-
fellows, for example the present Vice-Chancellor, the late Professor
Bagley, Mr. Ryder, and several others, knew this course so
thoroughly that they could not be “spun.” The strictest and
moet thorough examination could scarcely detect them in an error
in so long and miscellaneous a course. The teaching was perhaps
slow, but it was very sure, and the knowledge gained was not only
extensive but accurate. Dr. Keneally was also a member of our
class, and although perhaps the lowest in classical attainmenta,

Then and Now. 611

subsequently developed remarkable ability in his translations of
popular ballads into Latin verse.

With this extensive classical course science was not altogether
neglected in our schools. Although the entrance examination at
‘Trinity College included no science, yet the first term examination
embraced a small portion of geometry and algebra. In the schools
the names of physics, chemistry, botany, biology were never heard.
The students of the classics never learned English history ; Irish
history was absolutely banned, and while one of us would get a bad
mark for not knowing how many generations intervened between
Codrus and Inachus, none of us could tell whether George II. was
the grandmother or the mother-in-law of George III. The school
of Mr. Mulcahy was remarkable for the number of prizes in science
won by its pupils, and the son of its fonnder, afterwards Professor
at Galway College, has contributed some remarkable works to
modern geometry. A few pupils learned French from Mr. Claude
Marcel, an excellent teacher. German no one knew of. The Pro-
testant boys were taught the Church Catechism at certain hours
in school; the Catholic boys went for religious instruction to the
private residence of Father Mathew, where theology was sweetly
tempered with cakes and oranges. I am proud to be the possessor
of a prize granted by him for superior diligence, but whether it
was for my capacity in assimilating the Christian doctrine or cakes
and oranges, I leave it to my audience to guess.

So much for our training. I will now endeavour to give, as
far as I can, an idea of what we in the South of Ireland read at
that time. The author who had undoubtedly the largest number of
readers was Sir Walter Scott; it was only three years since he had
laid down his life with the burden which had oppressed him in his
latter years, but the full tide of his popularity as a Novelist was at
its hightest point, for the Waverley edition of his novels had madehis
works more accessible to all. All Europe and America read them,
and in France alone 1,400,000 volumns of translations of his works
were sold in a short period. I might call this the second wave of
his popularity, for at that time his poems were not quite so much
read as they had been. Some years earlier his poetical works had
been the object of an almost idolatrous admiration, and I knew
more than one lady who, like Macaulay, could repeat by heart the
greater part of the Lady of the Lake, or the Lay of the Last Min-
strel. The higher and ampler sweep of wing of Byron and other
poets had overshadowed the metrical romances of Scott. But his
Prose novels stood alone. In the delineation of any historic ‘period

612 Then and Now.

there was but one who stood near his throne, for Victor Hugo had,
in the year before Scott’s death, published his “Notre Dame de
Paris.” In those works in which he so admirably painted Scotch
character there was no one who ran parallel to his course save
Gerald Griffin, who, in his Collegians especially, painted the
Southern Ireland of the beginning of this century witha master hand.
Everyone read the Waverley Novels, and read them again, often
with as great pleasure the secónd time as the first, and fortunately
they contained a garner well filled with a teeming and various
harvest. Shakespeare was the only other writer of any other age
or country, who had presented us with dramatis persone so manifold
and so excellent; and I am sure to many of the readers of Scott
the phantom shapes which the Wizard of the North evoked were
more real than most of the people who actually surrounded them.
Moreover, the purity of his works —so different from the novels of
the preceding age in England, and of his own time in France—
made it possible to place his works in the hands of the young. Be-
tween the time of Fielding and Smollett and that of Scott, a host of
novels had been published which I have seen in the old circulating
libraries, but they have all disappeared, and left scarcely a name
behind. ‘ The Mysteries of Udolpho,” and the “Castle of Otran-
to,” were, perhaps, still read by a few, and out of the yeasty deep
that intervened between the time of Smollett and that of Scott,
the only notable work of fiction that emerged to remain for ever
an inimitable model was the “ Vicar of Wakefield.” Richardson no
one read. Thirteen volumes in one novel naturally startled a
group of beings to whom only threescore years and ten were al-
lotted. Miss Burney’s “ Evelina” was forgotten. A few read the
“Scottish Chiefs,” and other novels by Miss Porter, and some read
“Pride and Prejudice,” “Northanger Abbey,” and others of Miss
Austen’s novels, works which are placed by Macaulay in thehighest
class of fiction, but on account of their very temperance and mode-
ration can never become popular with a public which seeks an ali-
ment trop poivre, and who can never be content with the simple
country fare which Miss Austen provides. When the palate has
been trained upon pepper-pot and leek porridge, it can never ap-
preciate the delicate savour of custard and cream.

Next to Scottcame Bulwer. His first novel “Pelham” developed
a new vein—the novel of high life—so fully worked out afterwards
by D'Israeli, Ward, Mrs. Gore, and Theodore Hook. Bulwer’s
first romance was far more powerful than those which immediately
followed it, but was to my mind excelled by some which appeared

Then and Now. 613

after the time to which I refer, and especially by “ My Novel,” and
“ The Caxtons.” Bulwer was a most industrious literary workman ;
his dramatic works, especially “ The Lady of Lyons,” and some of
his poetical works, notably the first part of the “ New Timon,” added
greatly to his fame as a novelist. It cannot be denied that there
is some glittering tinsel about his style, and the shallow profundity
of his philosophy, which consisted a good deal of adjectives spelled
with capital letters such as the Beautiful with a capital B, and the
Ideal with a capital I, was not inaptly described in the lines—

“ And Bulwer as deep as the sky in a lake
Till the mud at six inches reveals your mistake.”

Yet take him with all his faults Bulwer will always hold his
place, and a good place, in the string of English novelists. At the
time I have chosen, ‘‘ Eugene Aram ” was the sensation novel of the
day, and “ The Last days of Pompeii,” which had just appeared,
opened a new path in fiction. It was oneof his greatest successes.

At this time only one novel of Ainsworth, “ Rookwood,” had ap-
peared, a romance totally different from, and infinitely superior tohis
subsequent works of the “Jack Shepherd” and “Tower of London”
school. His decline and fall were alluded to by Prout in the
“ Redbreast of Aquitania,” and at this time, D’Ieraeli the younger,

* as Lord Beaconsfield was then called, was known only as a novelist
and the author of the “Revolutionary Epic.” “ Vivian Grey ”
had been published in 1826, and its five volumes were still univer-
sally popular, and some of his subsequent ones moderately eo. He
had not yet entered Parliament ; for it was not until 1839 that he
made the celebrated maiden speech with which he brought down
the laughter of the House, but at the same time vowed that they
should hear him yet. Up to this time none of his novels had any
political significance. At the time I speak of he was engaged in the
celebrated fight with O’Connell, in which the latter complimented
him so much upon his remote ancestry.

Cooper’s novels, especially his sea stories and his pictures of
Indian life, were much read. Ward, the author of “ ‘Tremaine,”
Mrs. Gore, Theodore Hook, and Peacock, were also popular.

Among the poets, Byron and Moore were the twin stars of our
firmament. “ The Corsair,” ‘‘ The Giaour,” “ The Bride of Abydos,”
were devoured by everyone, and “Don Juan,” in spite of its
license, had many a reader, although, of course, the elders reserved
it for themselves, and forbade the younger branches from opening
its pages. “ Childe Harold,” which some one has defined as a col-

614 Then and Now.

lection of sonnets, of course took the first place with thoughtful
readers, but, wanting the narrative and dramatic elements, delighted
a more limited circle. Byron's several styles produced a host of
imitators, and the pseudo Byrons, the second-hand Laras, Don Juans,
Manfreds, Beppos, were Byronic in their Spenserian stanzas, in their
ottava rima, in their collars, in every thing sauf Je talent. The most
successful imitation of the Don Juan stanza which appeared amongst
us was “ The Steamboat,” which was published in Bolster’s maga-
zine, for in those days Cork produced a magazine similar in form to
Blackwood. It was written by Mr. Henry Bennett, a solicitor, and
a partner in the firm of Colburn and Bennett. It was a graceful and
accurate picture of the people of its day, as they slowly glided in the
City of Cork steamboat from Cork to Cove, and depended on the drift
of the tide as much as on the giant steam for dignified movement.

Moore was naturally a great favourite in his native land, and
in his Irish Melodies has left us a possession for ever. Never was
music more nobly married to immortal verse. Every one sung
them, and I was a child when I first heard my old friend, Mr.
James Roche, who, I am glad to say, still blooms amongst us, not
only sing, but in his singing read them with full appreciation not
only of melody but of words. Moore, himself, who had scarce any
voice, produced more effect by his admirable singing of these songs
than the first tenor of the time could create, and we find in Willis’s
“Pencillings by the Way” an excellent account of the mode in
which he delivered, in a kind of melodious recitative, the song, —
“When first I met thee, warm and young,” in which tradition
says that she “ who did not dare tó doubt” was Mrs. Fitzherbert,
and the “false one” was George IV. I have already spoken of
“Lalla Rookh,” and it would be impossible to pass over the “ Fudge
Family,” and the countless political yeux d’esprit which he con-
tributed to the Morning Chronicle, a class of comic writing in
which he stands unrivalled.

It has been the fashion to depreciate Moore, and gome hostile
critics, to prove their theses, have selected as specimens the least
interesting of his poems. It is true that as a poet for the people
he has not equalled Burns; perhaps here again his classical educa-
tion spoiled him, and his songs are not as racy of the soil as the
Young Ireland party would have wished ; but still, as models of
happy fancies, embroidered in the fairest colours and of the purest
outline, he stands in the first rank, side by side with Horace, and
far above the Anacreon that he translated. He was, like the first,
ascholar and a gentleman, living in the highest and mostintellec-

Then and Now. 615

tual society of his time, and it could not be expected that his poems
should possess the same untutored beauties as those of the Ayrshire
Ploughman. As well expect that Lesbia should win us by the same
artless arts as Nora Creina.

Next Moore, Samuel Lover was the most popular of song
writers. He substituted genuinely humorous songs for the spurious
comic ballads which passed muster, especially on the stage, as
Trish fun :—

“Oh, whack, Oupid’s a mannikin,
Smack on the back he hit me a poulter,
Good luck, Judy O'Flanagin,
Dearly she loves neat Looney M'Toulter.”

Such was the vulgar caricature that George Colman the younger
gave of an Irish comic song. That Lover stood high may be seen
from the following quotation from the Atheneum of 1835 :— He
treads closely upon the heels of Erin’s great little bard, At all
events, we recommend Mr. Moore not to leave his shoes near Mr.
Lover’s roorh door on a morning, for they will fit the feet of the
latter so closely that no jury will convict him of stealing.”

In Ireland Burns was not so popular as Moore, partly from differ-
ence of sentiment, and partly from difference of language—Burns’
Scotch was not so well understanded by us Southrons. But of
all authors of song the one who seems to me to soar the highest
was that Northern peasant, who sprung like a lark from his native
sod, soaring and singing till he made all the caller northern air
thrill with his melody. Amongst the wonders of science, we are
told by someone that the lark, high poised in air, makes eighteen
thousand tons of air move in that rhythmic measure which we call
sound.” A marvel, truly ; how that little throat can start that mighty
mass into waves of music. A marvel, truly; but not so greata wonder
as thie—that an humble shepherd on a lonely Scotch hillside should,
with his song make the hearts of men vibrate, from those who dwell
beneath Arcturas to those who live beneath the Southern Cross,
and not for a sunny hour of morn, but in shade and in sunshine,
in brightness and in gloom ; not for an hour, but for decades of
decades of years, mayhap for decades of centuries.

Shelley was little read. His atheistic opinions excluded many
of his works, and it was only by his minor poems, such as “The
Sensitive Plant,” and “The Ode to the Skylark,” that he was
well known amongst us. Of Coleridge’s poems only “ Christabel,”
the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” “ Genevieve,” and a few
of the sonnets were familiar. A few read Keats, (and many

“ 18,000 tons of air in a sphere, the radius of which is 50) feot,

616 Then and Now.

delighted in Percy's Reliques. Pope, Goldsmith, Gray, and
Collins still held their own. Shakspeare ‘and Milton only, of the
elder poets, were much studied. Of course a few read their
Dryden, and fewer their Spenser, and still fewer dipped into the
old dramatists. We were fond not only of seeing but of reading
plays, and many an hour was spent over Mrs. Inchbald’s Theatte.
Sheridan’s plays stood first ; but, of course, as loyal Corkmen, we
all admired Sheridan Knowles.

I could not within the limits I have prescribed to myself go
with any detail into the subject of general literature. Perhaps
the greatest favourite of all was Washington Irving, whose
“Sketch Book” and ‘Bracebridge Hall” were regarded as
classics, a character which I venture to think they will always
hold. Tom Hood’s works provoked to never-ending laughter, but
the only serious poem of his that I can recollect at that time was
the “Dream of Eugene Aram.” Of the books most read at the
time, I recollect particularly ‘De Tocqueville's “ Democracy in
America ; ” De Beaumont’s “Ireland,” the best work on Ireland
that had ever appeared; Willis’ “ Pencillings by the Way,” a
most interesting account of English manners and society by an
American writer, the first and best of interviewers ; Mrs. Trollope’s
‘Domestic Manners of the Americans,” a biting satire, for which
she would have been lynched had she been caught; “ The Crescent
and the Cross,” by Warburton, an admirable series of pictures,
unequalled in its way until Eothen blazed across the eastern sky.
Warburton also wrote a novel “ Darien,” in which, with a strangely
prophetic soul, he described the destruction of a ship by fire, and
so foreshadowed his own melancholy fate. A new mode of writing
history had been invented. The work most familiar to us was
Augustin Thierry’s history of the Norman Conquest. In the text
the words of the chronicler were closely translated, and the original
passages in the very words of the old writer were added in the
notes, a mode of writing which brought more vividly before you
not only what actually occurred, but how the story was told by
the first relator of it. This new departure was made more striking
from its contrast with the generalities which had preceded, where
the original imprint was defaced by the medal having passed
through the hands of so many burnishers and polishers.
It is remarkable that both Augustin Thierry and Prescott
produced their great works after they had become blind,
and in their researches in many a library they had to depend upon
the eyes of others when consulting original authorities:

[ To be concluded nart month.]

( 617 )

MAROELLA GRACE.
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND,

‘Aurmon oF “ musraa’s RIsTORY,” “(THE WIOKED WOODS OF TOBEREEYIL,” “ELDEROOWAN,”
«©THE WALKING TREES AND OTHER TALES,” ETC., BTC.

OHAPTER XXVII.
A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS.

As Father Daly turned back when a few perches up the path, and
saw her waving her hand to him, he remarked within himself that
he had never seen her look so fair and sweet as on this particular
morning. She wore a very dark blue dress, many shades darker
than the heather, with something crimson in her hat, and the old
man’s thought was that she had improved during the last few
months, that Bryan had never seen her look so well as this. The
idea of danger hovering round her had made him notice her more
closely than usual. She was as dear to him as his own grandchild
might have been. Nothing but the impossible alternative of allow-
ing a troubled soul to go into eternity unprepared and unshriven
would have drawn him at that moment from her side. But as he
turned away and lost sight of her he felt himself suddenly sharing
her happy presentiment. “She is right,” he thought. “ Some-
thing will undoubtedly take care of her!”

Marcella went on her way with no abatement of her unusually
good spirits. The effort to reassure Father Daly had reacted upon
herself and all realisation of danger had left her. She walked
quickly, but not as though she were nervous, or running out of
anybody’s way. At the next turn of the road she saw a car and
horee standing, as if waiting for some one, and she noticed as she
passed that she did not know the driver, who was standing by the
roadside while the horse munched the grass, idly plucking at the
tips of the lance-like leaves of the withering flag-lilies. At her
approach he averted his face and almost turned his back upon her,

At this point her way left the road and struck out over a piece
of vividly coloured moorland, skirted by black bog on the side
where it swept across to the mountains. About half a mile along
this level strip of land she could see the wooden walls of her

Vot. xu1., No. 150. December, 1885. 4

618 Marcella Grace.

hospital catching the gleam of the sun, but the intervening space
between her and them was lonely in the extreme. There was not
a cabin, nor a living thing in sight. So well-known was it to
Marcella that its loneness did not strike her. It was simply an
interesting bit of her daily walk in which the landscape always
took a peculiarly pathetic expression. A little further on there
was a wide, dark pool of irregular shape, with ragged edges, into
which the high-sailing clouds kept looking down as they passed,
giving an air of mournful animation to the solitude.

Just before coming to this pool by the edge of which
her path was to lead her, she suddenly stood still, fancying
she saw a figure lurking behind one of the short dark bushes.
Then she walked on a few paces, thinking she was after all more
nervous than she had admitted to herself, since she was seeing
mysterious figures in every bush in her path. Another moment
and it was put beyond doubt that her fancy had played her no
trick. A man was crouching on the ground behind that clump of
thorn, and her eye had caught momentary sight of the muzzle of a
gun.
In an instant she remembered the waiting car, the threats of
her midnight visitor, and concluded that her daring had ruined
her. With an unuttered prayer in her heart she remained stand-
ing quite still. She was well within range of the assassins gun, if
assassin this should be, and to turn to fly or run about wildly would
only be to provoke his anger and hurry his work. A few seconds
passed during ;which she seemed to have lived a century. What
was he waiting forP Why did he not fireP Her mind was
becoming active again, recovering from the first shock. She looked
and listened intently, and presently saw the crouching figure stir.
It did not try to rise, but stirred with a writhing movement, and
in an instant it flashed upon her that this was not a person who
could injure her, but one who was in need of her help. Getting
to the other side of the bush she saw that the man half hidden
there was lying on his face in an attitude of mortal pain, and that
the gun she had perceived was not grasped in his hend, but was
resting harmlessly against a sturdy stem of a stunted tree in the
thicket.

Making up her mind, from several signs she had learned to
know well, that this was a case of the fever, she hurried back to
the point of the road where she had seen a car waiting. The
driver was still standing where she had left him, but stared at her
strangely as she approached. She explained quickly that a man

Marcella Grace. 619

was lying ill about fifty yards away and that she hoped he would
convey him to the hospital.

“T am engaged,” he answered, “I am waiting for my fare.
I cannot leave this spot.”

“It will not keep you long,” she pleaded. ‘You may still be
in time for your fare.”

He stared at her again still more strangely and gave a look up
the road by which she had come. Then he stood a few moments
irresolute, and finally took his horse by the head and began lead-
ing it over the rough moorland, where there was no way for a car,
only a footpath.

“The joltin’ will ruin my springs,” he grumbled, but still he
followed her.

‘When they came to the spot where the man lay they found
him turned on his back with his flushed face thrown upward. He
seemed to have fallen into a stupor. The driver, on seeing him,
made a curious exclamation, and appeared so bewildered that Mar-
cella feared he had taken fright of the fever, and was going to run
away.

“TI implore you for God's sake,” she said, “to do this act of
charity. The man will die if he is neglected longer. He has
been ill with the fever for many hours. And it is not so con-
tagious as you suppose — ”

Then: the man with the car swore a great oath which scorned
the dread of contagion, and ended in a muttering about this being
an extraordinary business. Marcella admitted that truth in her
heart, but she did not betray the fact that she had recognised the
face, and still more the hands of the creature for whose life she was
pleading. She saw him lifted and laid across the car, and then got
up beside him, and held him that he might not fall off; while the
driver led the horse as before, till they stopped at the door of the
hospital sheds.

It was a case of fever of the most virulent type. As soon as
the patient was in bed and had been attended to for the moment,
Marcella went to look for the driver of the car. He had dis-
appeared and no one had noticed in what direction he had gone,
A careful messenger was sent to search for the gun which was
probably ;loaded and had been forgotten at the bush, but no such
thing was anywhere to be found.

Nobody had any knowledge of the patient whom “ Herself ”
had picked up on the roedside. His features were strange to
everyone. Patients, nurses, friends of the patiente—all declared

620 Marcella Grave.
hey hed never beheld him before Only Maroella recognised

a hen, a few hours later, Father Daly had come to the hospital
to look for her, to assure himself that she had not suffered from
his necessary desertion of her in the morning, he looked at the
sick man with pitying interest, and remarked that his face was
entirely unknown tohim. What opinion had the doctor given
about him, he questioned. A poor, gaunt, frail-looking creature,
he seemed pretty sure to die. What a pity he had not fallen into
helpful hands before delirium set in. It was sad to think that his
friends could not be communicated with.

The doctor a opinion was a bad one. Marcella walked up and
down outside the hospital with Father Daly, and talked about this
new case which powerfully interested her. There was a strained
look of excitement in her eyes, but Father Daly was not observant
enough to see it. She had been gay and hopeful in the morning ;
he found her active and strong-hearted now. He noticed no subtle
change in her, did not guess that anything extraordinary had
occurred in the meantime, that any crisis in her life had arrived
which she was taxing all her energies to meet. While he talked
she was asking herself whether she would dare to tell him of her
overwhelming discovery. Hor heart was beating so fast that she
drew her breath in long inspirations oocasionally ; her hands were
trembling, it was only by walking about that she could hold down
the inclination to laugh, to cry, to weep. No, she dared not tell
Father Daly. He would bring the police about the place immedi-
ately and scare away this cowardly soul into the other world before
she had had her chance to wait and watch for the saving words
which her hope assured her he could speak for her. She would not
tell any one yet who was lying in that hospital bed, who it wae
that Providence had delivered into her hands.

“I am going to nurse this patient myself,” she said. “It is
an interesting case. The doctor says that nothing but the greatest
care can save him. We are all good nurses here, but they say I
am the most —”

“Not at night,” began the priest.

“Yes, at night, till he is over the worst. Now, Father Daly,
shall I not be safer here than anywhere else? Nobody would
come to shoot me here. I know that this is the best place for me
at present, so please don’t say that it isn’t.”

From this resolution Father Daly could not move her. It was
the beat place, the safest place in which she could hide herself now.
Bo she argued and he was obliged to agree with her.

Marcella Grace. 621

The days were shortening, the September evenings lengthening.
+ When night came on she sent the other nurses to rest ; even the
man who was always in waiting in case of emergency was dismissed
to have some sleep within call, and Marcella took her place alone
as nightwatch. Father Daly had undertaken to write her daily
letter to Bryan for her, in such a way as not to alarm him. She
would not risk writing to him from beside a fever bed. Oh, what
news might she not have to write to him before a month, a week,
if heaven would only be on her side. She wrapped her shawl
closely around her and tried to still the trembling of her body and
soul as the vivid realisation of this chance, this opportunity that
had drifted to her feet, and might drift on past her, never to return,
seized and shook her like the paroxysm of a physical disorder.

After midnight the patient opened his eyes and began to rave,
and Marcella fell on her knees and listened to every word as if
life or death were to be decided by his delirious outpourings. They
were only the disjointed utterance of an evil conscience, revealing
nothing except the confused images and memories of a darkened
mind. Once she heard the name Kilmartin uttered with an oath,
but no words of any meaning followed it. Her strained ears were
rewarded with not a single sentence that could promise her the
remorse and confession for which she hoped. Before daybreak she
was obliged to summon the strong man always in attendance, to
control physically the frenzy of the patient which she was power-
less to soothe; and fled out on the moor in the breaking dawn to
wrestle with her impatience, to cry aloud to heaven for a light to
guide her in this cruel emergency.

If he should die in her hands without one sane word? Never
had her faith and courage been so tried as now. How was she to
remain quiet and trustful in God's Providence through all the
hours that were to decide whether her new-sprung hope was a
beacon light, or only a wandering fire that would flicker madden-
ingly and go out P By prayer alone, and if in her prayer she raved,
why, heaven would have pity on her, would know all she had wanted
to say, and forgive everything that she ought not to have said. The
sight of sunrise seemed to give her new hope, and she went back
with outward calm to take up her watch again at thestranger’s bedside.

The people around began to wonder at her exceptional interest
in this particular case of the sickness. Seeing the surprise in
their eyes she tried to account for it, saying that this was a
stranger, that no one knew his friends, that it would be especially
sad were he to die without giving some clue to them. “The doctor

622 Marcella Grace.

told her that she was foolish, was wearing herself out, that he had
never counselled her acting as a night-nurse. He noticed a
change in her strength, and would not answer for the consequences
if she were now to catch the fever which hitherto she had so wonder-
fully escaped.

Father Daly exhorted, commanded, marvelled. It seemed to
him she had neglected her duties at home, her care of Mra. Kil-
martin, her own health, forgotten even Bryan himself in her
extravagant solicitude for the life of this ill-looking stranger whom
chance had dropped into her hands. For all answers to his entreaties
she simply shook her head and kept her place. There was some-
thing working within her which he failed to see or touch. He
began to think that her extraordinary action was due to panic, that
she had got a dread of her home, a fear of being attacked there,
that in reality she felt safer at this bedside than anywhere else.

And yet such sudden unreasoning terror coming so quickly
upon her former almost reckless daring perplexed him. A fear
grew within him that the long strain upon her was telling terribly
fast, and that her mind was becoming a little astray.

This thought startled him cruelly one evening when she put
her hand on his arm at parting and looked in his face, and
said :

“You will not be out of the way when the crisis is near? I
am anxious about this man’s confession.”

“My dear,” he said, gently, “am not I, too, anxious, always,
for such poor souls P”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know; but the doctor thinks this man
may die without being able to speak.”

“If he does, it will be sad,” he replied. “We must pray for
him.”
“Yes, pray for him, and pray for me,” she said, urgently.
“The crisis is expected about an hour after midnight.”

«Then I will be here.”

She gave him a piteous look and wrung her hands together, as
if his promise was powerless to give her comfort.

“Oh, Father Daly, if I dared to tell you!”

“Yes, for heaven’s sake tell me. What is troubling you P”

She swayed back and forward with her hands pressing each
other. Her whole body expressed at once her longing to speak
and her effort to be silent. At last she conquered her agitation
and looked him steadily in the face.

“No, I will not tell, so long as there is a hope for his life.

Harceila Grace. 628

Now go, Father Daly. But you will come back? You will be
here P ”

That night after midnight the crisis was past, and the patient
lived. With the glimmer of a smile on her lips, a pale light on
her brows, as if an angel’s wing had passed across her face, she ©
signed to Father Daly to depart and leave her alone with her work.
Entirely baffled, he went home marvelling; while Marcella sat
motionless at her post, scarcely daring to breathe as the hours
went past and the patient lay wrapped in a life-giving slumber.

The scourge had been abating for some time past, and all the
other cases now in the hospital were convalescent. The present
patient had been put in a shed by himself, and his nurse was alone
as she watched through that night by his bed. A small shaded
lamp burned in a corner so that the light could not reach him, and “
Marcella sat in an arm-chair wrapped in a large rug, her wide-open
eyes fixed on the window beyond which a star was visible between
the dividing folds of the curtain. She dared not let her thoughts
run before the present moment ; all her mind was concentrated in
endurance. When morning came she stole away and took measures
to endure the continuance of quiet, so that the long slumber of the
sufferer might not be prematurely broken; then she lay down to
rest in a spot close by, appropriated to her own use. Late in the
afternoon he still slept, and Marcella having recovered her strength
a little, seated herself, refreshed, by his bed as before.

A red-gold beam from the sunset fell on her as she sat with
some needlework in her hands. - Her face wasa little pale, but fair
and cheerful under her nurse's cap, her fingers did not tremble as
she plaited the muslin frills of the apron she was making for one
of her girls. There was a strange sweetness on her downcast eye-
lids, the after-gleam of much prayer, the sign of a faith that can
live while waiting upon hope. So the patient saw her when he
first unclosed his eyes and looked around him. Before she chanced
to glance up and towards him, he shut his eyes again, and pretended
still to sleep while observing her.

After a while she was conscious that he was awake and watch-
ing her, but by no sign did she betray that she was aware of being
so studied. Out of the corners of his narrow eyes he took note of
the expressions flitting across her face, so pure and still under its
snow-white head-dress, the patient movement of her hands, the
dainty touch with which she adjusted the niceties of her work with
her fine finger-tips. He admired her graceful figure with the
square white apron smoothed across her breast. Accustomed to be

624 Hareella Grace.

watchful and suspicious he saw nothing in the picture before him
to suggest any but the most soothing thoughts, At first he did
not know her, could not imagine where he was, but when she
raised her eyes with their wide peculiar glance then he recognised
her.

Not until the next morning did he admit that he was con-
cious of what was going on around him, and in the meantime he
watched, and took note of everything with the wariness of a
detective.

As Maroella came and went, hovering near with all that was
needed for his comfort, bringing him nourishment with her own
hands, placing a few late flowers where his eyes could see them,
shading the light and hushing every sound that could disturb him,
sho was all the time nervously aware that she had been placed upon
her trial, that she was undergoing a searching examination, and
that presently not by looks only, but by words, difficult perhaps to
answer, would she be called on to betray herself and to confess her
recognition of the identity of this enemy who had been so strangely
delivered into her hands, And thus to betray herself might frus-
trate the efforts she was making and had yet to make.

She controlled herself to meet with a pleasant smile of
encouragement those treacherous eyes that had so sickened her
with horror when she had first seen them in the witness-box, to
place her bounties without shuddering in those cruel hands that
had filled her with such fear. She tried to forget for the moment
what he was, to be the nurse only, the almoner of heaven’s mercy,
to win his gratitude by her service, to touch his conscience, if he
had one, by her good will.

On the third day of his slow convalescence be found himself
strong enough to ask the questions which the cunning of his mind
had been arranging even before his voice was able to articulate
them.

“You are very good to me,” he said, “and I want to know
why? I have been wondering how I came to be here.”

She had just set down the vessel from which he had taken food,
and was standing with the light on her face so that he could observe
her.

“You were found ill and unconscious on the moor. You had
caught the fever. Of course we brought you here.”

“Who found me?”

“I found you on the way here one morning. I saw that
you were a stranger overtaken on your journey by. the |sick-

* Marcella Grace. 628

ness. We have had a great deal of the sickness in this part of
the country. You have had it very badly.”

He watched her narrowly all the time she was speaking, and
when she had finished he drew a breath of relief.

“Yes, I am a stranger here,” he said, “I was walking this
part of the country, for my holiday. I am employed in Dublin as
a clerk, and I do not often get a holiday. I had got a shooting
licence, and I had my gun. What has become of my gun.”

“TI thought I saw one near you, but I was so busy with you
that I did not mind it. I tried to save it for you afterwards, but
when I sent to look for it nobody could find it. I am afraid it must
have been stolen. I hope it was not a valuable gun.”

“Well, it was worth a good deal tome. Still, I am lucky to
have got off with my life. I suppose this is the hospital I heard
about, put up by Mrs. Kilmartin for the fever. It was a capital
idea. Only for it I’d be dead.”

Presently he added : “ Are you one of the nurses?”

“Yea,”

“You are not the same as the others. You look like a lady.”

“I am Mrs. Kilmartin.”

“Nonsense. You're joking with me. Catch her putting
herself in the way of infection! Ladies don’t do that when they
can help it.”

He turned his head away impatiently, as if annoyed at being
joked with, and Marcella arranged his pillows without another
word, and went and sat down at a little distance with her work.
She was afraid to look up, or almost to breathe for some time after,
fearful of betraying her satisfaction. In this first encounter she
knew she had got the advantage. He believed that she had not
recognised him, that he was as yet safe and unsuspected, and might
remain where he was to get well without fear of detection. Let
her now encourage his feeling of security. She must not for one
moment relax the effort to hide the terror, disgust, and impatience
with which the sight of him inspired her, but rather try to subdue
and ignore those feelings so as to do the work she had appointed to
herself in a Ohristian spirit. The meaning of the words “do
good to those that hate you,” came to her for the first time with
clearness and force in all its difficulty. She would give him her

charity, striving to forget what he was. That was the utmost she
could attain to.

Meanwhile the enemy did not hate her. He felt himself secure

626 Marcella Grace.

for the time, quite unknown to and unrecognised by her. After
all why should he have been afraid of detection? In her excite-
ment and trouble during the trial she had probably not been
observant ; besides he had then been shaven and close cropped ;
now his hair was long, and his beard had grown, and in this place
it was not likely that any attempt would be made to interfere with
either. On the night when he had gone to frighten her in her
home his face had been disguised beyond all possibility of identifi-
cation. It was evident at all events that she had no distrust of
him. With all her pluck, and she was a brave one, she could ifot
have concealed some sign of such a feeling, had it existed in her
mind, neither could she by any possibility have behaved as she
was behaving. The police would have been at his bedside, the
magistrates would have been watching him, but now it seemed that
nobody was taking any heed of him but herself. Was it only
that she was consoling her sad heart with deeds of charity, as the
people said of her? He had heard there were women in the world
of that order, who, when their own hearts were broken, could only
get along by serving, tending, saving others who were in pain.

He was not altogether an ignorant man, and only for certain
misfortunes, ill-taken, in his youth, might never have been a
criminal ; yet these thoughts surprised him, coming to him with
each long, stealthy look at Marcella’s face, as ideas come toa
reader off the printed page of a book. He began to feel it a
distinct pleasure to see her sitting near him, a pleasure such as he
had never felt since the days long ago, in another life perhaps,
when he might have been, when he probably was good. He was
too callous to hate her because he had done her harm, neither had
he any fear of her because of a power she might possibly possess
to harm him. He had run a risk of that, but it was over now.
He would soon be strong enough to rise up at any moment he
pleased and disappear from this place. There was nothing to stay
him but the resistance which might be made by those bountiful
womanly hands, no one to oppose him but a creature whom he
could in a moment fell with a blow; and it pleased him to think
he would rather not injure her, that possibly he might never
have to do so now.

No, he would not go away just yet. He would prolong the
pleasure of getting well in such hands. Even for his own security
and that of those who employed him it was desirable that he should
not move too soon. He asked her to read to him, for the luxury
of hearing her voice. He would exact every attention that his

Harcella Grace. 627

sickness entitled him to receive. He could never in his life have
such a chance again, and he would enjoy it now, to the utmost.
He paid little heed to the sense of what she read, only lay seeing
dim visions of what good men’s lives might be who had women
like this to love them and care for them.

Marcella, fulfilling her tasks and seeing him get stronger every
day began to grow sick with fear of the hour when he might be
strong enough to defy her. Her dream of touching his heart and
conscience began to fade. Could she expect a man like this to
turn round and denounce himself, to betray the organisation of
which he was the tool, unless life were, in any case, over for him,
nothing to-be looked for but deathP ‘Was he really going to get
completely well, and had the doctor been deceived? Should she
have to entrap and betray him herself into the hands of justice,
after saving, and serving, and cherishing him? She began to
suffer from an intolerable fear that she had been wrong from the
first in this affair, that she ought to have declared her knowledge
of his identity while he lay too ill to struggle, ought to have
stationed the police at once round his sick-bed. In that case he
might, on recovering, have avenged himself on her by still with-
holding the confession that would redeem Bryan, but at least her
evidence of his attack upon herself would go far to prove that the
secret society had really been Kilmartin’s enemy, and that her
husband was, as he had protested, the victim of a plot. If this
was the utmost she could hope to obtain by his arrest now,
how cruel she had been to herself, how needlessly she had
aggravated her own sufferings in the matter. She began to watch
him with a new anxiety, dread of his too speedy recovery, and to
ask herself how soon she ought to call on Father Daly to share her
secret and her responsibility, to give her his countenance and
advice.

Yet the convalescent was certainly gaining less strength than
might have been expected as a result of the abundant care that
had been bestowed upon him. He did not appear to have got cold,
and yet he coughed incessantly. Of this, however, he did not
himeelf take any heed, was quite satisfied with his own progress,
felt that he should only too soon be able to rise up and depart out
of this place, in which thoughts had come to him which would
have to be banished as soon as he had power to turn his back upon
the comfortable walls that had sheltered him.

At last one night, a sort of scare came over him, a fear that
some fatal.supernatural change hed been wrought in him by|the

628 Hareella Grace.

gentleness of this woman, a change ruinous to his own interests
and to the interests of the society to which he belonged; and he
resolved to save himself on the instant by escape.

He got up in the night, dressed himself, easily took possession
of all that was his own, and stole noiselessly out of the place.
As the few sick now remaining in the hospital were all on the
way to recovery, the night watch was not very strict, and no one
observed that the man was gone till morning dawned. Then
Marcella coming in to look to the needs of her patient found the
bed empty, and the criminal whom she ought to have secured and
given up to justice fled.

The discovery caused a sensation in the hospital, and Marcella’s
dismay passed unnoticed in the general surprise. The ingratitude
of the creature in thus disappearing without saying “thank you”
to any one disgusted the other patients and angered the nurses.
All agreed that if he died of the sudden change from the com-
forts that had surrounded him to the freezing hardship of foot
travel through the October night, nobody could pity him much.
‘There was every reason to suppose that such sudden exposure
might be the cause of his immediate death. Oh, yes, they would
go out in search of him if “ Herself” commanded them to do so,
but the ungrateful creature had done nothing to deserve it.
Why make such a fuss about his good-for-nothing troublesome
life P

Marcella had little hope that they would be able to recover
him alive, and as she went out on the wild moor in the chill misty
morning she felt as if she must have been living in a state of
madness during the past month, an unhappy madness that had lost
her a chance which could certainly never return to her. The
hope, the expectation with which she had worked had been idle,
fantastic, impossible. She ought to have denied her enemy her

ministrations and placed him under the watch of the
police. Now, he would die in some obscure corner ——

While her mind thus writhed in its perplexity and her heart
smote her with passionate self-reproach her thoughts wereinterrupted
by the sight of a group of figures approaching slowly out of the dis-
tance. As they drew nearer, a little new hope sprang up in her.
Here were the messengers returning, and they were carrying—was
it merely the body of the missing patient, or was he returning to
her to die? And yet, what did it matter, if at the last he should
refuse to speakP He was brought into the hospital and laid again
in his bed. The doctor was hastily summoned, and the sufferer

Maroella Grace. 620

‘was restored to consciousness. He had broken a blood-vessel, and
had swooned, but he was not dead. He had days, perhaps weeks,
to live, thanks to those who had found him where he had fallen
upon the wayside.

“You have been very hard on yourself, my man,” said the
doctor, when the patient feebly questioned him. “ Why were
you so mad as to run away and bring on this attack?”

“I thought I was well enough to go, and that it was time. I
had given trouble enough. I suppose I am not going to give
much more. What is the matter with me now P”

“Tam sorry to tell you that you have been in consumption
for months past. Is it possible that you did not know itP By
exposing yourself as you have done you have hastened the end.”

The patient reflected for some minutes and then said :

“ You are sure you are telling me the truth P”

“Certainly. I should have told you before, only I wanted to
give you a chance. I am sorry you have taken the matter out of
my hands. You cannot now live more than a woek, I fear—
though it is possible” .

‘When the doctor’s ministrations were over and he was turning
to go away, the patient stopped him, saying :

“ Look here, doctor, I suppose this is all as it ought to be. If
you tell me I’m bound to go, why I don’t see much to say against
it. But there are one or two little matters I would like to put
straight. Will you be good enough to send me a magistrate, and
anybody else who ought to be present at an important confession P
It’s a matter for the public, and [ mean to have everything fair
and square, so that the law can pick no holes in it when Im
gone.”

Marcella, who had been approaching the bed with something
needed by the doctor, paused and stood looking steadily at the
patient. Had he really spoken, or was it a delusion that brought
sounds to her ears which they had been straining to hear P

“Ay, lady,” he said, “I'm going to doit for you. You have
been good to me, that I will say, and for once in my life I'll do an
honest turn to somebody.”

Vou. sui. No. 150. 47

630 Harcella Grace.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
SUNRISE.

Mr. O’Fianerry of Mount Ramshackle and a brother magistrate
were soon at the patient’s bedside, acoompanied by a sergeant of
police and one of his men. The deposition made to them ran some-
what as follows :—

“As I am a dying man, going before judgment, I declare that
Mr. Bryan Kilmartin is innocent of all knowledge of the crime
for which he is suffering penal servitude, and of which he was
convicted chiefly on my testimony. I now acknowledge that
testimony to have been false, and confess that I, James Barrett,
shot with my own hand Mr. Gerald Ffrench Ffont, on the night
of the 10th of January, 188—. Bitter experience of landlordiam
in my family made me a Fenian while a lad, and of late years
I have been the agent of a very active branch of that society. In
the year 188— it was resolved to remove Mr. Ffont, who was a
tyrannical landlord, and at the same time to punish Mr. Bryan
Kilmartin for deserting from our ranks. We do not think it
worth while to pursue everyone who drops away from us, but
Kilmartin’s position had made him a precious prize for us, and
when he ratted it was resolved to do away with him. We did
not want to have his strong influence working among the people
by different means from ours. The ‘Nationalist’ party which he
had joined is a difficulty in our road; and he was tried and con-
demned by our Council.

“At the same time we were anxious not to have too many
murders on our hands, and it was resolved to get rid of Kilmartin
by making him accountable for the shooting of Ffont. The lot
to manage the affair fell upon me as I had been found useful on
several other occasions, It was I who lured him to the place, I
who fired the shot that killed Ffont ; I who gave the word to the
police who went in pursuit of Kilmartin. It was suspected that
one of our band tipped him the hint that enabled him to hide,
and—well, that man is dead.

“ Finding that Kilmartin was reprieved, and that in twenty
years he would in all probability be at liberty, the Society resolved
to make an effort to work upon him through his wife, and to
persuade him to enlist with us again. It was thought that a
desperate man, branded as a convict, might be influenced by
hatred of the laws that had condemned him, and might be induced

Harcella Grace. 631

to give the rest of his life to our service. As I-had succeeded so
well in managing his affairs before, this second piece of business
was entrusted to me. I got orders to remove the lad, Mike, as a
punishment of his opposition to us, and a warning to others, and
then to frighten Kilmartin’s wife into agreeing to our plans.
The penalty of refusal was to be death.

“I could make no impression on her; she was too plucky for
me; and though I would have given her time, myself, I had my
orders. I didn’t want to hurt her, but the thing had to be done.
I had been hiding up in the mountain for a week and hadn't,
been very comfortable, and when I felt ill for a couple of days
before the time came to remove her, I thought it was only the
hardships. That morning I was so bad that I said to one that
was with me, and who has got away, that I believed I couldn’t do
it. He called me a coward and reminded me that to fail of
obeying my orders was death to myself and no escape for her. I
went to the place though I hardly knew what I was doing. I
remember the sun getting as red as blood and as big as a mill-
wheel, and the sea rising up and beginning to move over the land,
and then the earth opened and I thought there was an earth-
quake. I remember nothing more about that time, but I saw her
face all through my illness. It went hard with me to take all
I've taken from her—I mean Mrs. Kilmartin—and know all that
I knew. I would have got away if I could, for I daren’t break
my oath and tell on the Society, but it’s all right now as I am
bound to die. I will tell you more again, perhaps, when I’ve
got time to think it over, but that will do for the present, I believe.
All I will add now is that if most landlords were like Mr. and
Mrs. Kilmartin, I and the like of me would never have been what
we are,

“ (Signed), James BARRBETT, of the Irish Invincibles, Chief
‘Informer’ on the Kilmartin trial.”

Witnesses of this confession were the magistrates, the Police,
the doctor, Father Daly, Marcella, and one or two nurses.

“Now,” said the doctor to the police, “ you can watch your
man here ; but mind, I tell you, he will never be able to leave this
bed. Let him die in peace.”

“Lady,” said the dying man, who had scarcely taken his eyes
from Marcella’s shining face from the moment he began his con-
fession, “you're going to your husband now, and I'll be dead
when you come back. I have only one thing to beg from you
more—that you will let me kiss your hand —~”

; 682 Marcella Grace.

With a swift movement Marcella came to his side and gave
him her hand. “ May God bless you,” she said, ‘and forgive
you, as I forgive you, for myself and him.”

Then she turned slowly and walked towards the door, and
passed out, stunned and blind, scarcely seeing where she was going
till the others overtook her, and Father Daly caught her hand
and led her. Mr. O'Flaherty took off his hat and congratulated
her warmly, and assured her that Mra, O'Flaherty would do her-
self the pleasure of calling at Crane’s Castle to-morrow. The other
magistrate murmured something to the effect that the whole
county would do its best to make amends. Marcella bowed
mechanically, but did not hear them, and Father Daly signed to
them to let her alone, and go. When they were gone, she began
to tremble violently, and stood still, and said :

“ Oh, Father Daly, is it a dream? I have dreamed it so often.
Is it only a dream? Don’t tell me it is a dream and that I have
got to awake.”

He stroked her shoulder, her hand, gently.

“No, dear, no dream, no dream; only God's love and God's
mercy. We have trusted in that, and thatis no dream. Now, my
dear, courage, courage! Sorrow could not crush you, neither
must joy. Remember Bryan ——”

At the sound of his name a low ery broke from her, in which
rapture and anguish’were mixed, as if the new joy in her heart
could not believe it had got that strong sanctuary all to iteelf by
right, and was still constrained by the struggle of departing pain.
And with that first lifting up of her voice the tears came, and she
wept a torrent.

“Let me cry; it will be over in a moment.”

“Ory away, my dear; it will wash out the last of the misery.”

Half an hour later they were in Mrs. Kilmartin’s room.

“Mother,” said Marcella walking up to the invalid, “our
Bryan is coming home at once, do you knowP He is coming
home at once. Father Daly and I are going to meet him
now.”

A sort of white radiance illumined her face, though her manner
was very quiet. Only for that marvellous light in her eyes and
the curious thrill in her tones one could not have guessed
that anything extraordinary had happened.

But the change in her acted at once on the invalid, who looked
up with a sudden glance of awakened intelligence.

“Coming P” she said, “coming? Ah, yes, now I believe

Marcella Grace. 683

you, because you look like it. Many a time you said it, but your
eyes told me at the same time it was not true. Is he coming
to-night? Oh, why are we not all at Inisheen P’”

” The doctor who had followed them was listening to her.

“I believe it will be just as I fancied it might if he could
come,” he said to Father Daly. “ His arrival will probably work
a sudden cure.”

Within an hour Marcella was ready to start on her journey to
England. ‘“ We can be there as soon as a letter,” she said, “ and
perhaps they would not give him a telegram. Let me go at
once.”

Father Daly was eager to accompany her, but reminded her
that there might yet be a trial in store for her patience, a small
trial, easily borne after all that had come and gone.

“The law moves slowly,” he said, “and doubtless many
formalities will be necessary before the order for release can be
forwarded to the prison.”

“Then we must whisper him the news through the keyhole,”
said Maroella, with a sudden bright laugh, the novelty of which
startled the listeners.

After all there was a period of waiting outside the prison gates
before even a whisper of the news was conveyed to the prisoner,
‘but when the order for release came Marcella was permitted to be
the bearer of the happy tidings.

Kilmartin was reading in his cell, or trying to read, for his
mind was disturbed by a haunting fear that all was not well at
Distresna. He knew that the fever still lingered about the country,
and that his wife was exposed to it, and he had been informed
that there were letters from Ireland awaiting him, which had been
withheld, and could not yet be delivered. He was not quite able
to connect these two facts in his uneasy speculation, not seeing
why the authorities should interfere to retard bad news from
home, if such were in store for him, yet the interruption in his
correspondence seemed ominous, and his imagination had free
room to work in his solitude and suspense. He laid down his
book and tried once again to reason himeelf out of his forebodings,
when the sound of the key in his cell-door concentrated his atten-
tion on itself as an occurrence quite out of rule at that hour of
the morning. The next moment he had sprung to his feet with
an exclamation of surprise and gladness, for Marcella was within
a yard of him.

634 Harcella Grace.

«My love, how have you come hereP What extraordinary
favour is this P”

She was looking so bright and bonnie, her eyes shining, her
lips quivering with joy, that che seemed to have stepped straight
out of the old happy time before the trouble came. What cause
had she now for such delight in merely an unexpected opportunity
of seeing him? In proportion to his rapture would be the depth
of Her sorrow at having to leave him again when the hour of
departure should strike. This thought passed through his mind
as he held her in his arms, and then across it flashed another with
growing brilliance—a conviction that there was some more than
ordinary cause for the happiness that irradiated her whole face and
figure, that seemed to throb even in her very hands, and in the
movement of her feet.

“What is it, Marcella? You have something to tell me. Tejl
it to me.”

She tried to speak and failed. Now that the moment was come,
her voice was lost and she stood dumb. She looked at him implor-
ingly, and with a supreme effort brought forth at last the words
which she had repeated to herself so often that the whole universe
seemed to echo with them.

“Do you not know it P” she whispered. ‘Oan you not guess
it? “You are free.”

The affair was talked about in the papers awhile, several
paragraphs appeared drawing attention to it, one or two journals
had even a leading article on the subject, while a controversy
sprang up for a few days between anonymous letter-writers to
the press as to whether the testimony of informers was or was nots
safe kind of evidence through which to obtain conviction on an Irish
trial. The nine days’ wonder came to an end, however, even before
the expiration of the proverbial term. A few people talked of
compensation for Mr. Kilmartin, who, when consulted, made the
request that any compensation of which he might be thought
deserving should be held over in trust for the next victim of
criminal information. The subject was an unpleasant one for those
who had been oversure of the released convict’s guilt, and there
were a good many people who were ready to quote “no smoke
without fire,” and to grumble that a man who had once been in
prison for murder could never be quite on a level with a man who
had not.

Immaculate! 685

Kilmartin and his wife had meanwhile returned to Ireland,
received the delighted congratulations and welcomes of their
people, and enjoyed the consolation of seeing the mother cured by
the reappearance of her son in accordance with the doctor’s
expectation. Italy is at present the scene of their hard-won, and
scarcely hoped-for happiness, yet they are far from entertaining
the idea of becoming absentees ; for Father Daly is already making
preparations for their return to their home.

THE END.

IMMACULATE!

EE, the brightening eastern sky
‘Tolls us that the sun is nigh.

‘What a glow the welkin fills,

Ere he peeps above the hills!
Earth, rejoice ! the night is past,
Gladsome day is come at last,

And the dawn, her errand done,
Opes the portals of the Sun.

All the world was plunged in night,
Reckless, hopeless of the light.
‘Through sin’s paths men staggered on,
Where no ray of mercy shone,
Blind, they lay where’er they fell,
Knew no heaven, and feared no hell.

Ab! that flash across the sky
Speaks the Sun of justice nigh!
Mary comes, her blissful birth
‘Tells of joy to all the earth.
Raise your heads, the darkness flies,
See the blessed Dawn arise!
Flashing rays proclaim her state—
Immaculate! Immaculate!
G. RK.

€686 )

' THE CRATER OF VESUVIUS DURING AN ERUPTION.
By Joun Fatron.

|HE little story which I am going to tell is rather an old one—
just twenty years old last Spring—and my sole reason for
venturing to tell it in print is, that having mentioned it a few
times to friends, I have found that part of it caused some little
surprise, indicating that the experience which it enfolds is not too
hackneyed. You will judge, if you care to read. To me the
affair never seemed to involve anything either particularly
hazardous or heroic; and I have no doubt dozens of young men
did as I did, during the same season, and without thinking much
about it.

It was in the month of March, 1865. Visitors to Rome at
that time will remember a rather lively exodus from the eternal
city towards Naples, because the word had gone forth that
Vesuvius was in a state of active eruption, sending up clouds of
ashes, and immense volumes of steam and smoke, which glowed
like flames at night. This was a sight to attract travellers, the
more so as old Etna was reported to be in an absolute blaze across
the waters, lighting up the straits with its incandescent lava; and
the two-fold eruption was at variance with preconceived ideas, that
the sister-volcanoes only worked by turns, like alternate safety-
valves of mother-earth’s internal fires.

Following contagious example, and rather glad to have a little
respite from the laborious delights of sight-seeing in Rome, I
started one morning without the least preparation, without even
surrendering my charming room at the Minerva, but leaving the
floor of it all littered with Roman books lent by friends. Books and
floor and room I relent to a young Oxonian, who was suffering ill-
health from overwork at home, and further overwork here,
whither he had been sent for repose; and my reward was to find
him a renovated man when I returned after a fortnight. Such is
the magic result of a simple change of aspect in Italy.

For miles, as the railway led along, it was through a succession
of valleys, the hills on either side streaked and capped with snow.
It must be the clearness of the air, and the consequent night-
froste, that retain this dazzling mantle, notwithstanding the genial

The Crater of Vesuvius during an Eruption. 687

sunshine of each successive day ; and thus one travels in almost
summer garments, all inoongruously, amid the vestiges of winter.
This same dryness of the atmosphere causes the few white clouds,
that float high up in the air, to project ehadows on the mountain-
sides, ao deep in tint and so olear in outline, that they mottle the
elopes in the strangest manner to our northern eyes.

At Ceprano, the then frontier-town of the Pontifical states, I
was fined by the Piedmontese officials for not having my passport
in order : this little misfortune was not so much to be wondered at,
considering that I had started volcano-hunting without the least
preparation. But the curious thing was that, on the return journey
I was fined again for some fresh informality of the same precious
document, though in the meantime it had been laid before the
Spanish embassy, at Naples, to be stamped and signed afresh.

At San Germéno I had just leisure to view from the railway-
carriage the mountain-perched monastery of Monte Cassino,
princely in its dimensions, fortress-like in style. Is not
this quite the senior, the absolute great-great-grandfather, of
all the oldest monasteries in Western Europe? I think it is; and
I noted that the young peasant women, strolling up and down the
railway-platform, wore the white veil, in fact, all the head-dress
of novices in a convent, except that a little of the throat was ex-

Advancing towards Teano, the costume of the people became
more and more picturesque and the landscape finer and finer.

It struck me I had never seen anything more beautiful
than the country round Capua. Such tillage! This is the
heart of Campania, the garden of Italy, the land where toil is
a never-ending joy. I can now understand why the Romans, in all
their fierce resentment, after avenging the defeat of Canns and
the treason of Capua, still spared the huebandmen to cultivate this
paradise !

Tillage is a relative word, so let me give you an idea of what it
means here: the steep hill-sides terraced into levels, those levels
shaped into rectangles like billiard-tables, so that not a foot is lost.
From level to level are vertical drops, sometimes amounting to eight
or ten feet, of sheer descent; down these the sparkling water, led
from the mountain-tops for irrigation, tumbles in small cascades
of crystal, then flows along the borders in rippling and joyous
rivulets, or is borne from plot to plot in tiny aqueducts ; while tanks
of white-washed ‘masonry stud the hill-sides, to store a supply for
the summer droughts. Just now each terrace is carpeted with

688 The Crater of Veswoius during an Eruption.

'grass-corn of brightest emerald. Amid this verdure run long
straight lines of elms, planted from East to West, and pruned to
present a letter Y to the sunny South; up these living trunks
vines creep and cluster, and run pendant in festoons from tree to
tree. At intervals, rows of tall poplars give fresh character to the
scene ; and, grander than all, giant parasol-pines, one here one
there, uprear their mighty trunks and spread their dark boughs,
shaped just as their name imports. It was of such the younger
Pliny thought and wrote, when he compared to “a pine-tree” the
smoke of the Vesuvian eruption that killed his uncle and buried
Pompeii, together with so many other cities that we, hard-read-
ing moderns, have learned to forget.

At length the fiery cone, main object of my trip, came in view,
first to the right, then to the left of the train, as the latter wound
slowly round the outskirts of the ancient city of Parthenopé. And,
sure enough, the smoke and steam that rose up from it was like
the pine-trees we had just passed, only about a thousand yards
high instead of eighty or ninety feet; and the cone, contrary, as
usual, to my preconceived ideas, was covered with dazzling snow
to the very top!

It struck me there was an elegance in the villas that surround
the wide-spreading suburbs of Naples, built, many of them, like
Grecian temples, with pediments and pillars. And, as if for con-
trast, I observed huts of bee-hive shape, whether to shelter farm-
produce or farm-labourers I know not, whose primeval form made
the classic villas all the more effective.

* . * .

Scarcely had morning dawned, when I was off to Pompeil.

Needless, nay ridiculous, to descant on the unspeakable beau-
ties of the coast line, and its familiar perspectives to South and
North, and the deep blue of its sea beneath.

A punctilious official, with braided livery and parrot speech,
insisted’ on guiding me round the roofless town, “ par ordre du
gouvernement ;” and then I insisted on guiding myself round it
again, he following in silence, to his intense amazement and dis-
gust. This done, it was quite too late for that day to ascend
Vesuvius with satisfaction.

Note that I saw, in a small museum, corpses, or plaster casts
taken from the volcanic moulds of them, of men and women that
were living and speaking in the days of Titus, when Pompeii was
still a city. One was of a Roman legionary, caught by the erup-
tion while mounting guard, and bravely dying at. his: post.

The Crater of Vesuvius during an Eruption. 689

Another was of a youthful matron, her infant in her arms, her
silver ring on her finger, the anguish of death on her face.
Another had quite the smallest hands and feet I had ever seen,
for one of her stature, and an inexpressibly sad look on her features.
Could it be that if ten righteous ones had been sought to save the
doomed city, this classic model and the young mother and the brave
soldier would not have been eligible for the number?

Thus one wanders, musing, fooling, thinking, and then re-
turns, satisfied with the day’s hard work, with half the day’s pro-
gramme unaccomplished.

. . . .

'The three following days went in exploring the northern side
of the bay of Naples, from Pozzuoli, where St. Paul landed, to Cape
Misenum where the, trumpeter of 2Eneas was drowned—by lakes
Lucrine and Avernus, the caves of the sibyl and the dog, and by
ever-matchless Bais. From these points of view the immense pine-
tree cloud of Vesuvius seemed leaning over to one side, and
pouring down the snow-covered slope, then up the opposite hill.

For three more days, constant broken weather detained me with-
in the precincts of the city; but you can fancy me visiting the
churches, most of which I understood to be under a temporary in-
terdict as to religious service ; and, of course, I explored, day after
day, the Borbonico museum, in which the collections of pictures,
‘vases, and statues, &c., are beyond reckoning and beyond price. You
can also imagine me indulging in the unfashionable amusement of
staring into the shop-windows bedecked with coral, or at the
flashing equipages of the Chiaia, and the lazy lazzaroni of the
quays. I know not whether it was political prejudice, or the
damp weather, but it struck me that the cries I heard resounding
through the streets of Naples were all discordant, and that the
people who uttered them were a mixed race, the dregs of many
nationalities, devoid of type or beauty. In many cases the teams
that drew theircuriously-poised equipages were almost as composite
as themselves, for you might note a horse pulling ignobly abreast
with a mean cow and a meaner donkey ; and this not infrequently.

. . ó .

On Monday, the 13th of March, I made another early start for
Pompeii, but was unable, from caitiff weather (tempo cattivo) even
to revisit the ruins, much less to ascend the cone as I had intended.
After spending three dreary hours in the hotel Diomede, waiting
in vain for the downpour to stop, I returned. So you see that

640 The Crater of Vesuvius during an Eruption.

bad weather is not altogether the monopoly of old Ireland, as some
people assume.

On the following morning I sallied out again, with every cir-
oumstance propitious. It being the birthday of King Victor
Emmanuel, and of his son Prince Humbert (now King), whole regi-
ments of Bersaglieri were pouring into the Toledo thoroughfare for
areview. They are small-sized, but smart well-built men, and as
fighting machines I believe they are first-class.

Arrived at Pompeii, I revisited each favourite spot; after
which, taking first a good breakfast and then a good guide, Imade
straight for the mountain, by “ Bosco tre case.”

The atmosphere was at starting somewhat hazy; but, as it
cleared off, the view became superb, and fully repaid the ascent. I
believe I was favoured by the snow, because, although it is no
light matter to pull your feet through ten or twelve inches of it,
or more, at every step, it might have been far worse to have had
to scramble over pebbles and cinders, that yield and roll under
you evermore.

Arrived at the very lip of the crater, I met two young English-
men with their attendant guides, busily engaged cooking eggs in
the hot ashes, at the edge of the beetling precipice. To what
will not the eternal principle of “ nil admirari” push the juvenile
Anglo-Saxon race!.. Every now and again, as I stood panting
and admiring, a thundering noise arose from beneath, like the
simultaneous tumbling of many carts of broken stones ; then, just
after a few seconds, there came back the clattering sound of a
volley of rock fragments from against the steep cliffs on the
opposite side of the crater, of which I could only get momentary
glimpses through the seething volumes of uprushing steam.

And now, as if some imp inspired them, the young Anglo-
Saxons proposed that we should all three go down with our guides,
and have a look at the place below... . ‘ They were game for it
if I was.” . . . “It was only five-francs a piece extra.” ... “ The
guides were willing.” . . . “ Those Italians were such cowards they
would never venture if there was the least danger.” . . . and so on.
So down we went all three, each strapped by the waist, and held
with a rope, like monkeys in a menagerie.

The going down was a simple affair, mechanically speaking;
the face of the crater was like a steep sandbank, owing to the
ashes that covered the rock ; each step gave a sheer descent of two
or three feet, or more, and we took about eighty or ninety steps

' The Crater of Vesuvius during an Eruption. 641

downwards, more or less. We went as far as it was tolerably safe
to go, certainly as far as I could endure. The skill of our
guides consisted in steering us right behind the “ emissario” from
which the stones were being projected, and this they did with
unerring ease. (People less prudent, who neglected this cardinal
precaution, paid the penalty on previous and subsequent days.)
But no skill could guard our precious feet against the scorching heat
of the ashes, which made us dance strange antics as we sank into
it, all unintentional, but most ridiculous. And no steering could
preserve us against the choking effect of its gushing gases, which
made us cough till it was unwise to tarry.

And what did we gain by this absurd descent, beyond suffo-
cation and augmented noise? Nothing, except that at intervals
we got perhaps clearer glimpses of the opposite wall of the crater,
apparently a couple of hundred yards off, all brown and yellow
with sulphurous deposits, and streaming with condensed vapour ;
and then all was clouded again. Vainly did we look downwards
for yawning chasm, or the sight of a great blaze ; it was all steam,
and smoke, and nothing more.

And now, to reascend; this was verily, the “ mauvais quart
dheure.” We had come defiantly down, but were towed igno-
miniously out, each guide pulling his own particular victim, and we
all coughing like fools, and blind as bats. Such is the effect of
chlorine and sulphur gases on the eyes and lungs of the unac-
customed Celt and Saxon. You may believe that I shall not for-
get those arduous minutes, and was glad when we reached the
heaven-sent ozone of the mountain-top.

And here, after a pause for breath, we cooked more hard eggs,
eat them together as if we had been friends for years ; then coolly,
with a calm shake of the hand, we separated for ever. Such is
life!

Of course this eruption was merely one of the ordinary ones of
Vesuvius, quite a second-class affair compared with the grand dis-
plays that history tells of, and of which the cone iteelf is a
speaking record. Even within quite recent memory there have
‘been times when the mountain has shot up red hot stones and burn-
ing ashes, in volumes inconceivable, and when it has trembled and
collapsed in its paroxysms, and poured out streams of molten lava,
some of them narrow, others hundreds of yards wide and running
along for miles. To approach its lip at such times would have
been death indeed. Such streams harden rapidly, but take years,
almost generations, to cool. I touched one, still. hot, that: was

642 The Crater of Vesuvius during an Eruption.

vomited long years ago. Each lava stream has its date, and all
have a hard metallic ring, and in places a hollow sound.

Historically speaking, it is pretty well attested that in the days
of kingly and consular Rome, the crater was as quiescent as if it
had been utterly extinct; its fires were a mere legend of the
prehistoric past, only living in the doubtful nomenclature of the
surroundings. Within its dense recesses a jungle of wild vines
luxuriated ; and here Spartacus, with his valiant companions, made
his first brave stand for freedom ; from here he and they escaped,
down heights deemed too steep for human foot, with ladders made
of the creeping boughs, and then, mere gladiators and slaves though
they were, they defeated their pursuers, and gave the consuls and
legions of Rome ample work to subdue them.

The sudden awakening of the volcano in the days of Titus is
the theme of the younger Pliny’s letters, and what Pompeii, Hercu-
laneum, &c., too well attest. History tells of another dormant
stage, all through the sixteenth century and the early part of the
seventeenth, followed by another fierce awakening, with human
holocausts in many many thousands, and ashes floating through
the air off to the Isles of Greece, and the distant Bosphorus.
Since then the mountain’s record has been a pretty lively one;
and, like a great earth-bubble it has gone up and down, varying:
vastly in height with several of its principal eruptions. All this.
may be had in books; but let me revert to self.

Passing down to the station of Torre Annunziata, the sole of
one of my boots fell out, thanks to the atrocious scorching it had
got in the crater; and for the first, and, I trust, the last time in
my life, I had to walk barefooted, “ guuad ” one foot. Arrived at
the village, I was shown a cistern that was being cut through
three successive layers of volcanic ash, the upper and middle ones.
about three feet thick, the latter already indurated like Roman
tufa, the undermost one apparently still harder.

It struck me the people about Torre Annunziata have features
of classic type, in this respect differing vastly from the lower orders.
of the capital. Not only have they glorious hair and eyes, but also
small mouths, fine teeth, straight profiles, and something suggesting
lineal descent from the grand old Hellenic-speaking colonists of
antiquity. Buttheir amusements did not strike me as either classic
or sublime; one was, to sit on the ruins of a wall in absolute and
utter idleness; another, and apparently a better, to lie flat on the
ground, with about three feet of maccaroni pendant from an out-
stretched hand, the classic lips busily engaged gnawing at the other

Be Brave! 643

extremity; thus mildly to devour is their dear delight. Listless
and contented, with a much worse danger than the sword of
‘Damocles ever hanging over them, those are the people to rebuild
their homesteads after each fresh eruption, before the cinders are
yet cool, while the embers are yet smoking. Mere existence here is
life to them; life elsewhere would be banishment and death. A
few short years of calm is all they ask of heaven, and this they thus
enjoy. Good-bye.

BE BRAVE!

E brave! for cowardice is ever fatal:
Make all the bulwarks of thy weak heart sure,
Gird up thy soul within thee for the battle,
And sternly set thy spirit to endure.

Be brave! There is no hope of thine evading
This field whore thou most either yield or win.
‘A timid soul works out its own degrading,
And much depends on how thou dost begin.

‘Thy life shall be just what thine actions make it,
Warfare must come, though it come soon or late;

The cross is certain, whether thou dost take it
‘With willing hands, or shrinking from its weight.

Bo brave, with that true courage God bestoweth
On humble hearts whose weakness He makes strong;
“The end of all thy Father's wisdom knoweth,
‘And thine own heart shall know it too ere long.

‘The struggle may last long, but not for ever,
Let not Obrist’s freeman tremble like a slave.
‘Whatever He may ask of thee, oh! never
Forget the crown is greater—then, be brave!
Stsrze Many Aowns,

THEN AND NOW.
A LITERARY RETROSPECT.
BY DENNY LANE.
Parr Il.

Axoour this time there gleamed above the horizon the first rays of a
new star, and certainly there never swam into our ken a stranger
comet— brilliant, erratic, lurid, nebulous, by times it seemed to be
guided by no law, but flashed like those fireworks, which meeting
even water, suddenly alter their track, and scintillate into effectual
and changeful brightness. It seemed to belong to no system previ-
ously discovered, and for a short time threatened to establish an anti-
system of its own. Yet it was but an outgrowth of seeds long pre-
viously sown, and Thomas Carlyle, though his admirers may think
him to have sprung self-generated from the soil, was but the develop-
ment of older germs, and the lineal descendant of Rabelais, Sterne,
and Jean Paul Richter. It is an old saw, and wiser than most old
proverbs—“ Omne ignotum pro magnifico,” and popular criticism
sounds with a line eo short that whenever its lead cannot touch
bottom it supposes that everything beyond its reach must be un-
fathomably deep. Far be it from me to limit human genius within
the shallows in which we, ordinary men, wade, or to prevent it from
setting sail over a deeper sea, but I believe that many who profess
to go beyond the shallow lagoons of thought, seem to us to do so
only by the mists of language which they themselves cause to arise
between us and their ensign. In 1835 Carlyle’s “ French Revolu-
tion” had not appeared. Some ten years before he had published
his first work, the “ Life of Schiller,” written in what he called his
“ governess English ”—a work which he afterwards designated as
remarkable for “its intrinsic wretchedness and utter leanness and
commonplace ;” and in the following decade chips from his pen
took the form of translations and criticisms on the German authors.
But in 1830 and 1831 Carlyle’s first important work appeared in
Fraser—“ Sartor Resartus, or the Philosophy of Clothes,” and I
especially mention his early works because he himself told me that
a Corkman was he believed the first to discover their power, and
when some years after Carlyle came to Cork, I had the pleasure of
introducing to him at my own table his first admirer, the Very Rev

Then and Now. 645

Archdeacon O'Shea, for many years a parish priest in this city, and
an original member of this Society. Father O'Bhea was an inde-
fatigable reader, and when I was a boy there was a tradition that
he and Mr. James Roche had read every book in the Cork Library,
then, for its time and opportunities, a wonderfully well-selected
collection. But whether this tradition be true or not (and I see so
many lies in printed testimony that I am inclined to give the greater
weight to tradition), it is certain that a priest in Cork was the first
to discover the advent of the new comet. It is not for me to criticise
Carlyle, but I cannot leave the subject without expressing my belief
in his great defect of moral sense. Of right or wrong he seemed.
to have no perception. Power was what he bent down before.
What other men called good fortune was his idol. To triumph
with Cesar, not to suffer with Cato, was his selected task. He
introduced into literature the term “flunkey,” and if I may use
his own word he appeared to me as always the flunkey of power,
and generally the flunkey of success. He had no ruth in his heart
for the defeated, and long before Froude’s cruel autopsy of his
“friend,” I had formed my own impressions from the writings
themselves of the merciless injustice of his selfish philosophy, and
I have to his face charged him with gross misrepresentation of my
own countrymen—a misrepresentation founded on the evidence of
an ignorant woman, and contradicted, as he admitted, by his own
experience. But his great power as a writer no one can seriously
question. Many passages in his “ French Revolution ” move you
like a well-acted drama. In “Sartor Resartus” you may find
specimens of style as charadteristic as any he has ever written.
He had a ruck of imitators, but the fashion he set has fortunately
gone out.

In periodical literature the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews
held the first places. Jeffrey, Sydney Smith, and some others of
those who had in 1802 founded the Edinburgh Review still wrote
for it; and for some ten years they had the help of the most
popular writer who ever contributed to its pages, and whose essays
have become almost a text-book in modern literature. I mean, of
course, Thomas Babington Macaulay. His first essay, that on
Milton, was, perhaps, the most characteristic of his style, and to
his own mind contained faults, for he subsequently amended them.
The articles on Boswell’s Johnson, on Warren Hastings, and that
on Lord Bacon, are, perhaps, the most striking amongst them ;
and the last of over one hundred pages exceeded in length any

other article ever published in a review. He had not yet written
You. x11. No. 150. 48

616 Then and Now.

the history which Carlyle characterized as “a novel,” and others
called “along political pamphlet ;” but he was known as a poet
by the spirited ballads which had appeared in Knight's short-lived

e.

The Quarterly ran close on the Edinburgh, and between its
most powerful writer, John Wilson Croker and Macaulay, there
existed a hatred which would not be unworthy of two musicians
who, I am sure, exceeded in jealousy the Doctors and the Beggars
of the old proverb, “Medicorum et Mendicorum maxima est
invidia.” John Wilson Croker had for a long time been the
leader-writer and political pamphleteer of the Tory party—a
position afterwards occupied by Dr. Maginn with far different
fortune.

Maginn was once asked to dinner by Croker, but was placed
near the foot of the table, and taken no notice of by his host, who
at the head of the table was surrounded by several peers. At that
time the party was rather weak in debating power in the Upper
House, and there was some talk of elevating the Secretary of the
Admiralty to the Peerage. One of the noble lords asking his
host what title he would take, Croker replied, “ My people come
originally from Lyneham in Oxfordshire, and I think of taking
the title of ‘Lord Lyneham.’” Maginn, nettled by the inatten-
tion of his entertainer, had been sulkily swilling wine at the foot
of the table, until he reached that point which, in a lower grade
of society is called “ the cross tumbler,” but now raising his voice,
exclaimed—“ Wouldn’t it be better if you took the title of Lord
Penny-a-line’em ?” It is a matter of political history that Maginn
dined only once at Croker’s,

Another very able review, the Foreign Quarterly, was largely
read. Many articles, and often the annual resumé, were con-
tributed by Dr. Jones Quain, the distinguished anatomist, who
had an extraordinary knowledge of literature as well as science.
He was the First Professor of Anatomy at the London University ;
his brother was elected Professor of Surgery ; another brother
rose to the English Bench ; and a nephew (the present Dr. Quain)
holds the first place amongst the English physicians—a gifted
family who came from our own county, and who certainly avoided
the example of their sires, the old Rakes of Mallowe Dr. Jones
Quain was the best educated man I ever knew, but, unfortunately,
was of a singularly retiring disposition.

Amongst magazines Blackwood would have perhaps taken the
first place, but it was closely pursued by Fraser, which first ap-

Then and Now. 647

peared in 1830, and then had the co-operation of three most
able Corkmen in Dr. Maginn and Father Prout, both not only
able writers of prose, but authors of verse, and in Daniel Maclise,
who as a draughtsman, stood unrivalled eave by another Irishman
—WMulready. Father Prout’s name is such a household word in
Cork that of him I need say nothing more than this, that he
appeared to me to have exceeded all others as a translator of
lyrical poems, and that at his hands even the refined gold of
Beranger’s noblest songs were gilt with a brighter metal and
received a higher lustre than when they came originally from
the hands of the great French artist. His “ Bells of Shandon”
remains the charter song of Cork. His beautiful poem, the “ Red-
breast of Aquitania,” with its envoi to Harrison Ainsworth, led to
a bitter quarrel between the writers. Maginn was long a con-
tributor to Blackwood, and subsequently joined Fraser, and the
humour and satire of his papers were rarely surpassed. In Black-
wood Cork at one time occupied a prominent place, and some
extravagant caricatures of our public men delighted other publics
than that of Cork. There was a freedom of satire in these times
which has disappeared now, but it must be confessed that in these
our days satire has lost half its merit in losing all its grossness,
and it is amongst the most highly placed politicians that we now
have to seek for the most energetic ribaldry. Within these walls
political leaders are as sacred as mumbo jumbo, or I might refer
for examples to more than one leading statesman in more than one

Before leaving the names of the Rev. Francis Mahony and Dr.
Maginn, I would wish to point out an error in Mr. Henry Morley’s
book on the “ Literature of the Victorian Era,” in which in two
places, he makes the error of ascribing the authorship of the“ Prout
Reliques” to Maginn instead of Mahony—a mistake all the more
notable from the great care and accuracy which distinguish the
other portions of the work; a work which I saw for the first time
a few days since, and which if I had seen sooner would have saved
me much trouble in verifying dates.

The New Monthly Magasine was in those days rather declining
from the high level to which it had been raised during the editor-
ship of Campbell. Taifa Magazine was an able liberal publication.
Both, however, have joined the majority. In 1832 there sprang
into existence a new form of magazine, which appeared weekly ;
and the Penny Magazine and Chambers’ Journal appeared almost
simultaneously. The first was illustrated, and had ‘numerous

618 Then and Now.

imitators, amongst which was the Dublin Penny Journal, contain-
ing interesting papers and illustrations of Irish topography and
antiquitiés. All have long since passed away, with the exception
of Chambers’, which lives and thrives. And referring to Chambers,
I would recommend every young man to read the life of Robert
Chambers, by his brother William. He can there learn a lesson
of patience and perseverance, of order, self-control, and of ultimate
success in a useful career, attained in a great measure by those
qualities in which our young men are most deficient. The sole
relic of the Penny Magazine is the Penny Cyclopedia, a most usefal
work which has been re-edited. Another class of work was in
great vogue in these days, and might be classed amongst the
magazines—I mean the annuals contributed to by the best writers
of the day, but so disjointed that the principal value consisted in
the beautiful steel engravings with which they were illustrated.
However, some of Scott’s and Hood’s best poems appeared in them;
and Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and Mrs. Norton were constant
contributors. The “ Forget-me-Not,” the “ Amulet,” the “Gem,”
the “ Bijou ” had a considerable sale in Cork about Christmas-time.
The most ambitious was the “ Keepsuke.” The price—a guinea
—seemed high, but it was said that 11,000 guineas had been spent
in bringing out a single number. At the time I refer to, however,
the sale was steadily declining, and the annuals died out leaving a
faint odour of kid-gloves and lavender-water behind them.

I now come to a department of literature the most important
of all, if we count the number of readers. I mean, of course, the
newspaper, and in no branch has there been so great a change, a
change arising from many causes, to some of which I will call your
attention. In the strict etymological sense journalism did not exist
in Cork fifty years ago. If we speak of a journeyman we mean
aman who works every day—chaque sournée—except Sunday, and a
journal properly means a daily writing. But at the time I speak
of, the journals of Cork were half-timers, The Constitution, founded
June, 1822, appeared on the mornings of Tuesdays, Thursdays, and
Saturdays. The Reporter on the afternoons of the same days, and
the Chronicle on the evenings of Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays. The Constitution was Tory, the Chronicle the very oppo-
site, and the Reporter was a Catholic Whig journal. The last paper
was conducted with great ability by the proprietor, Mr. Redmond
O'Driscoll, who during the session of Parliament resided in London
and wrote for his newspaper a private correspondence remarkably
neat, trenchant, and brief, and his admirers before expressing an

Then and Now. 649

opinion were in the habit of waiting until they couldthear “ what
would Reddy say.” Mr. O'Driscoll was not a University man, I .
believe not a classical scholar, and was noted for a simple and pure
style of English, which I have often found goes with an ignorance
of the learned languages. I once complimented a very dear friend
of mine for the excellence of his judgment of books, and added
that I attributed it to this, that his perfect natural taste had never
been corrupted by any reading. I am glad to say he deeply ap-
preciated the compliment. There is no doubt, that we find in the
English, of the unlearned Cobbett a charm which we fail to dis-
cover in the ponderous style of the learned Samuel Johnston. The
greatest writer of English, or any other language, we are assured
(by another learned Jonson) had “small Latin and less Greek.”
I have seen many other similar cases, and if the keen-eyed critic
can detect any error in my own style I beg that he will be merci-
ful to me on the ground that I am one of those whose pure “ well
of English undefyled,” was contaminated by a sound classical
education.

If any members of the press are listening to me I feel I must
make their teeth water when I tell of the Paradise in which their
predecessors lived, an Elysium in which, like opera singers, they hed
to perform only three time a week, and generally in the evening,
when the midnight oil was rarely burned, and their copy written
on linen paper by nutgall ink was lighted by Dan Apollo’s rays,
instead of by stifling and unwholesome hydrocarbons or the livid
light that the Dynamo-Electric cheds upon esparto paper and ani-
line ink—an era when the writer had time to think, whether he
did so or not, and the reader had time to read—or to let it alone.
In many a torture chamber abroad, and especially in the admirable
collection of the Folter Kammer of Ratisbon, have I studied the
various forms of torture which the middle ages devised, and herein
had they marvellous powers of invention, but nowhere have I seen
anything like that acute, yet continuous torment which the editor
of or writer for a daily newspaper must suffer when he is drying
up his heart’s blood, and spinning out his nerve tissue to a beggarly
public which pays him only a penny a day. I grieve to think of
the oceans of ink that are spilled upon continents of paper, and
printed in universes of journals, which in a day or two might as
well have been left unwritten and in a few hours lapse into the vast
void of nothing.

But fifty years ago there were salutary restraints upon this
merciless shedding of ink. A benevolent government, put a tax

650 Then and Now.

of two. pence on every printed ‘copy of a journal, while the very
paper in which it was printed paid in duty as much as the first
cost, and the very oil and lampblack for which the printing ink
was made, and the nutgulls and vitriol which filled the pen were
heavily taxed. I often am about to beg that those blessed days
may again return, but I check the prayer, when I remember that
even then the people of Cork suffered from three newspapers, and
that even in those days editors occasionally died.

It is beyond my present purpose to tell you how the Cork
Chronicle with the pallor but without the poetry of the Roman Em-
peror bled to death, how the Reporter passed into the hands of Mr.
William Fagan, and Mr. Mullen, and others, and was carried on
under the editorship of Mr. Fagan, the Rev. William O’Sullivan,
Mr. Edmund M‘Carty, Mr. Michael Joseph Barry, Mr. Adams, until
it gradually went out. The Constitution, now conducted with a
broader spirit than that which animated its early days, is still
flourishing, and was conducted as long as I can remember by the
amiable Mr. Crean, who was a tiger in politics, and a lamb out of
them. He always opened his columns to me, provided that my
communications had nothing to do with religion or politics, and
was as civil to me as he was threatening to the Emperor of all the
Russias. He gave me an indulgence which I own I abused, and
the corrupting influence of journalism was eating into my heart,
when my conscience was rudely awakened by having been found
out in giving a highly discriminating critique on a concert in Kin-
sale, when, I grieve to confess, it was proved that the writer was
in Youghal. At this time the Ezaminer did not exist, having ap-
peared for the first time on the 31st August, 1841, under the able
editorship of Mr. Maguire. The Cork Daily Herald, at first an ad-
vertising sheet, until it passed into the hands of Mr. David A.
Nagle, did not see the light until 1855, and the Skibbereen Eagle
had not yet spread its ample pinions to the breeze. The price of a
Cork newspaper fifty years ago was 6d., but the two-penny stamp
secured one free transmission by post, an important privilege
when the postage of a single letter without an inclosure was la. 3d.
to London, and 10d. to Dublin. It must be remembered that no
railway was opened in Ireland, and up to 1838, only two linee—
the Stockton and Darlington, and Liverpool and Manchester, both
short ones—were working in England. Although the steamers
had long been used, they were slow, and on one occasion my voyage
from Cork to Bristol occupied 56 hours.

The high price of newspapers reminds me of a story which illus~

Then and Now. 651

trates the great ingenuity which the natives of the neigbouring
kingdom of Kerry so often display. A solicitor from the kingdom,
who always resided in Dublin during term-time, took up with him, a
servant, acountrymanof hisown. Entertaining hisfriendsone even-
ing, when some important news was expected, he sent his servant out
after dinner with a sixpence to buy a copy of a paper from thenume-
rous hawkers who then cried Mail! Post / these being the two even-
ing papers of Dublin. The servant returned and handed his master
the paper, which being a week old, was hurled, with sundry impreca-
tions, at his head. The servant fled from his master’s ire, but took
the paper with him, and returned in a few minutes handing back the
paper, and alleging that it was the Post of that evening, as it turned
out to be. The master was positive that he had made no mistake in
the first instance, and difficulty was explained by the ingenious do-
mestic confessing, ‘‘ Wisha, Masther, I thought I could sell a
paper as well as any of them, so I put on an ould coat anda
batthered ould cady, and called out, Mail / Post / as loud as the best
of them, until I sold the ould paper, and bought a new one, and saved
your honour sixpence, which I hope you'll not forget.” Before
leaving the subject of journaliem I must remark that few people,
I think, fully comprehend the marvel of the penny paper. The
immense amount of matter which is published, the extraordinary
expense that is incurred to procure early information, and the high
fees paid to special correspondents, besides the large incomes secured.
to the permament staff and the ample profits reaped by the proprietors
of the great journals, are marvellous, but would be itapossible only
for thelarge revenue derived from theadvertisements. Butthisgreat
source of revenue seems peculiar to the journals of England, and
the French, German, or Italian readers are, perhaps, less credulous,
or manufacturers are less enterprising; but certainly we cannot find
in a foreign paper anything resembling the dense jungle of adver-
tisements which enriches, while it encumbers our own journalism.
I have counted in one weekly journal 60 pages of advertisements, and
these, I know, are paid forat a high rate. In those days “ Warren’s
jet blacking, No. 30, the Strand,” took a leading place. “ Row-
land’s Macassar Oil,” which Byron has celebrated, ran a good
second :

“ And as for virtues, nothing could surpass her,
Save thine incomparable oil, Macassar.”

When Campbell, the poet, suggested to Mra. Rowland that
some of the metrical ballads in praise of the fragrant oil may have
come from her own pen, she indignantly replied, “ No; sir, we

652 Then and Now.

keeps a poet.” But, like the Homeric heroes, the advertisers of the
present day may boast that they excel the achievements of their pro-
genitors, but the artist is more employed than the poet. I believe
of all, peerless amongst his peers, Mr. Pears appears. I should
add that a paternal Government then put a restraint upon its pro-
digal children, for it imposed on each advertisement a duty of 88.
6d., subsequently reduced to 1s. 6d. and 1s., which I think was the
rate in 1835.

A very scurrilous sheet called the Freeholder continued to appear
at irregular intervals, generally on Saturdays. The editor, one
Johnnie Boyle, was believed to levy black mail on those who feared
his pen. Asa general rule, the paper was noted only for its in-
decencies and libels, but, occasionally, some clever verses appeared,
and the best of these were written by Mr. Joseph O’Leary, the
author of the celebrated temperance song, “ Whiskey, drink divine.”
He had a good talent for versifying. I always admired the verse
about Anacreon, and some of his satire would not have been un-
worthy of Swift. The Freeholder was seldom prosecuted for libel,
but some one adopted the rude justice of revenge, by nearly cud-
gelling the brains out of the anonymous writer with an anonymous
shillelagh. The “ wounded” snake, however, “ dragged ite slow
length along,” from 1806 to 1888. It was an early progenitor of
the Society papers.

In endeavouring to give an account of what we read, and what
we wrote, and what we thought of, in Cork fifty years ago, I feel I
have attempted too much, for the time at my disposal, and I must
barely touch on the second motive of my theme, namely, what we
read, write and think now in literature. This is not to be regretted,
as you yourselves are as good, perhaps, better judges that I am of
our present position. In this long lapse of time there has arisen
end has passed away a host of writers of fiction. Dickens, of
whom it is superfluous to say more than that he, beyond any other
writer, has contributed to the honest pleasure of two generations,
and in some things was as much a reformer as a story-teller.
Lever, who made more men laugh heartily than any other writer
of the century. Thackeray seldom showed power in the con-
struction of a narrative, and his characters, whether good or bad,
are defective in that inconsistency which is interwoven with our
human nature. He is more of an essayist than a novelist, but the
story itself may not be of gold, yet upon its thread is many a
“pearl at random strung.” Trollope, who provided for his readers
pleasant pastime, but no more than pastime, and a host of others.

Then and Now. 653

But the sceptre ina great measure passed into distaff, for in all that
period the names of three women stand forth pre-eminent—Harriett
Beecher Stowe, Charlotte Bronte, and George Eliot —Mra. Stowe’s
great work was the sword that cleft Negro slavery from crest to
centre. Charlotte Bronte’s few novels stand examples of clearness,
of thought, of deep emotion, and purity of style; and George Eliot
has, from the ‘Scenes of Clerical Life,” down to all her latest pro-
ductions, which are too analytical, left works with all the finish and
durability of finely sculptured marble. I regret to say that women
have also produced the coarsest works which English literature has
evolved during the time, and I could name another trio whose
grossness has not deprived their works of popularity. I have
looked into some of the novelists of the present day, and, excepting
those of Mr. Black, Mr. M‘Carthy, and Mr. Guinee, I confess
I have not derived any great pleasure from them, and I be-
lieve few of them will reach posterity. Of the poets, what ehall
I say? Tennyson has been the object of an exaggerated cult, but
whether it is that I have not been able to get rid of the evil im-
pressions which the affectation of his earliest workshas left, I own I
can never take him to my heart, as I didthe men of yore. He can
never be a poet of the people, and I believe the intense admiration
of his works is founded in a great measure on a certain dainty
Zstheticism which will not be enduring. With respect to Robert
Browning, I think that every one must regret that the author of
“How we brought the good news to Ghent,” and the “ Pied Piper
of Hamelin,” should so often have involved his thoughts in an ob-
sourity which I fear is not unstudied. I lived so much among the
poets of the Young Ireland era, that I may be prejudiced in fa-
vour of my friends, but I believe the poems of Davis, of Duffy, of
Clarence Mangan, and D. F. M‘Carthy and of Ingram will last as
long as Irish blood runs in Irish veins. Swinburne has his ad-
mirers ; [am not amongst them. As a workman, his childish love
of alliteration, and love of complex form condemn him. The
minor poets are as numerous as the stars in the milky way, and
many of them are nebulous enough to fill worthily a place in a di-
luted galaxy. Writers in general literature are so numerous that
they are as countless as the poet wished that Chloe’s sweet kisses
might prove.

‘With respect to our literary séatus in Cork, in 1885, I will at
once say that I see no evidence of progress. With far greater aids
to learning, I see less learning. We have now what we had not
then—a provincial college, a school of art, penny newspapers instead

654 Then and Now.

of sixpenny newspapers; we have telegraphs, telephone, railways,
swift steamers, penny postage, many reforms in matters which too
nearly approach politics for me to allude to them here. But, with
all these aids, do we find in the middle class a mark of improvement?
I regret to say I do not see it. I would only be too glad to be con-
vinced that I am wrong. Of the men who remain amongst us, it
would be invidious for me to speak ; of the men who have migrated
within the last decades, I can only remember the name of Mr.
Justin M‘Carthy as that of one who has made his mark in litera-
ture. Onr great schools exist no longer, a fact partly to be ac-
counted for by the fashion of sending away boys to English and
foreign schools to get a thin varnish of French, or an electro-plated
English accent. Ihave met a good many of them, and none of
them came up to the standard of the home-keeping youth of my
boyhood, furnished with homely wits and home-spun knowledge. I
cannot find more, I believe if I searched I would find fewer men
who can write well, who can talk well, who can think well. I may,
like other men advanced in life, be called audator temporis acti, but
Tam fond of converse with my fellows, and I must confess that, so
far as literary matters are concerned, I am repelled by the baldness
of conversation, which is, for the most part, confined to a repetition,
without variation, of what I have read in the papers of to-day or
yesterday. I would give a premium for a man who would start a
parodox, or who would twist into any new shape the useless infor-
mation with which I have been bored for a day or a week before.
I think the soil is more sterile, and certainly the plants are less
vigorous than they were in my early days. I find young men
thinking of entering an University at the age when my compeers
left it, and yet I hear great complaints of overwork which I never
heard of in my youth. I see few young men who are enthusiasts
on any subject except cricket, lawn-tennis, yachting, or bicycling.
I see young lads going about reading a pink paper called, I think,
Sport, which derives its chief interest from the reports of betting
transactions on the turf. Cricket, a stupid game introduced from
England, to the prejudice of honest, bone-breaking hurley, seems
to me one of the great agencies employed to deprive our youth
of intellect, and I noticed some time ago, while moving about Eng-
land, that the talk of nine men out of ten was of cricket or of horse-
racing. Nothing can contribute more towards keeping a sound mind
in a sound body than hearty exercise, but the body is not every-
thing. Were I, like a Roman Emperor, to enjoy an apotheosis,
— and were! to select companion, I confess 1 would prefer ‘Glorious

Then and Now. - 655

Apollo,” or even that pleasant rogue Mercury, to that lubber Her-
cules, with all his thewa and sinews, and his little nut of a head
Or, reverting to the Autolycus of the skies, I would rather meet the
herald Mercury new lighted on some heaven-kissing hill, and bear-
some message from the skies, than burly and muscular Vulcan, after
he had been kicked out of the upper house for his filial love. But,
seriously, I do believe that in these latter days themind hasbeen made
too much the slave of the body, and while our young men “ wear
out their youth with shapeless idleness,” we too often find mens
vacua in corpore pleno. In these remarks I address myself to the
middle and upper classes of society. In the humbler classes I see
a marked advance especially notable since the Intermediate Edu-
cation was applied—a test which some of the middle class schools
judiciously avoid. National schools have done much. Others have
done more. I may point with pride to the school of my friends, the
Christian Brothers, to show what a free school can do in open com-
petition ; and had La schoolboy son myself I would, on sound financial
principles, send him to a school where I would have to pay nothing,
but where he would rceeive a great deal, instead of to one where I
would pay a good deal, and whence he would bring away nothing.
Now, from this we have to learn a lesson often taught before, but
seldom heeded. If kenning and canning are the same, the upper
and middle classes must see to it, that they do not become the lower
classes. The higher classes of our citizens have in a great degree
withdrawn themselves from municipal life, and very few of our
younger men have ambition enough to come forward, but they leave
all the work to the greybeards.

I rarely meet a young man in the Cork library now-a-days. It
used not be so, and I am told that our friend, Sir John Pope Hen-
nessy, whom, I hope to see ere long Ambassador to China, attributes
his success in life to the hours he spent in that Institution in his
early days.

But while I have noticed the decline and fall of literary taste
and capacity in Cork, I do not despair of a renaissance—and it is
especially the object of this society, to keep rebuilding in a newer,
mayhap, in a better style, the edifice of which we were once so
proud. The material I am sure is here; I trust we shall not want
artists to hew it into forms of strength and beauty.

If my estimate of our present status seems too depreciative, my
words are meant not to discourage but to stimulate, not to chill but
to kindle amongst you that love of letters which so many writers,
from Cicero to Sydney Smith, have so justly lauded. You will per-

656 Then and Nov.

ceive I have not said a word about science, for, great as are the
pleasures it affords to the student, the mass of mankind must feel
more interest in human emotions, and in human action, than in any
of the objects of scientific research. And the younger members
of this Society I would counsel to secure a provision against many
a trial and balm for many a sorrow, to cultivate as a germ of
priceless and perennial growth whatever love of literature now
stirs within them. A very close friend of mine has said that if the
offer were made of ‘forty pounds a year,” with the love of read-
ing, or a thousand a year without it, there would be no hesitating in
adopting the former, for, on the first you may be “ passing rich,”
and on the last you may “be poor indeed.” If I may speak from
my own experience, and after a life not without its trials, of all
the endowments which fortune placed within my reach, I regard
the love of reading as the most valuable. Other friendships may
fade, or be blighted, ties that seemed made to last for ever may be
snapped asunder like a thread of gossamer, but books are the true
friends who always stand steadfastly by you, and sustain you,
doubling your joy in the sunshine, and halving your sorrow in the
gloom.
What struggles, what painful efforts have I seen made by many
to rise into what they deemed a higher or a more polished grade of
society, struggles often unsuccessful, and, if successful, often bitterly
disappointing! And yet how easy is it to make companions of the
real aristocracy of mankind. You require no letters of nobility to
enter that truly royal court. Princely Shakspeare welcomes you
with his friendly, honest smile. He is a prince in whom you may
put your trust. When they hear your voice, blind old Homer and
blind Milton stretch forth their hands to grasp your own; the
greatest of thinkers, the mightest masters of language proffer you
their converse, and the great master singers of all ages greet you
with the choral hymn that has stirred and elevated the hearts of
the generations that have passed away, and will pulsate as deeply
in the hearts of generations yet unborn.

€657.)

AN IRISH BOY’S LEGACY TO THE HOLY CHILDHOOD.

Two or three summers ago the drawingrooms of Lord O’Hagan’s

residence in Rutland-square, Dublin, were filled chiefly with
Catholic ladies who had come to show their interest, or to acquire an
interest in a pious organization of zeal devoted to the Propagation of
the Faith—not the grand Association which bears this name, but one
preparatory and subsidiary to it. We have used the word “ filled” as
a weaker term than “thronged:” for those spacious rooms held on
that occasion a very much smaller crowd than they did on other occa-
sions when their noble mistress and some of her friends lent the aid of
fine dramatic talent to the service of certain other charitable objects.
The programme on the day I refer to was of a less attractive character.
Lady O'Hagan, President of the Irish Ladies’ Committee of the Holy
Childhood, had invited us to hear a statement from the Director-Gene-
ral of the Association, the Chanoine du Fougerais. Canon Fricker
read a report on the work done in Ireland; and then the French Canon
made a very interesting address in his own language, beginning with
the history of the Association as established forty years ago in
France, where the mother Association of the Propagation of the Faith
bad sprung up not long before. The Sainte Znfance, he explained, aims
chiefly at enlisting the zeal of Christian children in converting the
little children of heathendom.

How many of the pious mothers, gathered together in Rutland-
square on that June day, have persevered in the effort to interest their
little ones in that holy work ? Oneof the week-day morning sermons
in a certain Dublin church during the following Advent brought this
same Association of the Holy Childhood before the pious faithful
assembled. One mother enrolled her children that same day, and she
and they have persevered ever since. Yet no: one of her children
has given up his place in theranks of these juvenile crusaders. He
has died ; and it is his legacy to the Holy Childhood that has suggested
this little paper. His Christian names were “ John Joseph Aloysius.”
Early last summer, on the feast of the last of these patrons, or on the
feast of the Sacred Heart, he made his First Communion. Then after
a month he approached the sacred table a second time; and his third
Communion was his Viaticum. On his deathbed he displayed preter-
natural sweetness and wisdom, giving good advice to his brothers, never
murmuring but always praying, and thanking every one so brightly.
‘When towards the very last he was too weak to grasp the crucifix and
could gasp out a few words of prayer with his loud difficult breathing
— Put it against my mouth, mamma, that I may shout on it.” In
the final prostration and pang of death the poor little boy said with

658 An Irish Boy's Legacy to the Holy Childhood.

broken accents, yet quite loud: ““O my God, I give up—Jesus, I am
fainting—Jesus, take me!” These are his exact words, of which I
took a note soon after. And then he closed his eyes himself; no
hand, not even a mother’s, was needed to be laid on them after death.

Yet even more consoling for the mother’s grieving heart was the
bequest that has suggested this slight memorial. The little purse
containing the savings of his short lifetime was to be given to the
Association of the Holy Childhood. The contents—let us venture to
specify them—amounted to fifteen shillings and fourpence; but who
can tell what sum that represents in the estimation of Him who of old
prized the widow’s mite considerably above its actual value in the
money market P

. There is another Irish child who, we trust, will not follow John
Joseph Aloysius for many and many a year. He was only three or
four years old when he showed his generosity by something harder
than a legacy—a donatio inter vivos, parting with his money when he
was alive and able to enjoy it. Pinned with certain papers bearing on
the present subject, I find letter, of which the writer little dreams it
has survived so long. “ May I ask you as a great favour to .dis-
pose of the enclosed large sum of three shillings in eome way that
will give personal pleasure to a few of the little ones in the Children's
Hospital ? This is half of the first money-box possessed by my son.
I have told him some stories about the poor sick children and so excited
his pity that, when asked what will he do with his money, he says:
* give sweets and horses to the sick ba-bas.’ I know you will not refuse
a helping hand in my son’s first act of charity and thus satisfy a foolish
mother.”

May God bless such foolish mothers! This three-year-old lived a
hundred miles away from St. Joseph’s Hospital in Upper Temple-
street, Dublin; yet this “foolish mother” had infused into him such
compassion for suffering little brothers and sisters whom he had never
seen, that when the question arises as to the distribution of his first
treasure, his generous impulse is to provide, not himself but them,
with an ample supply of cakes and of those hideous little wooden
monstrosities which under the name of “horses” exercise so strange
a fascination over the baby-boyish heart. Such a mother will have no
difficulty in teaching such a child to extend his sympathies also to the
far more pitiable and desolate little heathen children far away; and
therefore we reckon on the proprietor of the aforesaid money-box,
who is now three or four years older, as a zealous recruit and recruit-
ing-sergeant for the Association of the Holy Ohildhood.

( 659 )

THE CHRISTMAS PANTOMIME.

BY A MOTHER.

IHE theatre, and theatrical amusements generally, are usually
pronounced to be unfitted for a juvenile audience, Any protest,
therefore, coming from a parent, as to the ill effect of any part thereof
on the mind of his child, might be met with the rejoinder which
Thackeray in his noble story of “The Newcomes,” makes the night-
revellers give to Colonel Newsome, under somewhat similar circum-
stances—‘‘ Why do you bring young boys here, old boy P” .

There is, however, one exception to this general rule, one entertain-
ment in the year’s programme, especially arranged for, and supposed to
be peculiarly appropriate to the little folk; I mean, of course, the
Christmas pantomime. It is about this time-honoured institution that
Thavea word to say : a word so deeply, so unfortunately true, that
despite defective and unskilful utterance it deserves, from this very
truth of it, and from “the pity of it,” some serious attention.

I do believe, and I am going to try to show, that of all the dramatic
entertainments given at the theatre, from the year’s beginning to its
close, there is not one so absolutely harmful, so utterly evil in ita
influence upon the audience to whom it is presented, as this said
Christmas pantomime. The dramas which are hurtful to older heads
would pass harmlessly over the curly pates of the blissfully ignorant
little ones; the pretty “mise en scene” would delight and perhaps
even refine them; but, in this so-called juvenile entertainment, I think
it will be found to be true, that rudeness, cruelty, and arrant vulgarity
are made patent, clear, and unmistakable to the childish mind, nay,
even its warm young sympathies are enlisted on their side.

I took my little people to their first pantomime last year ; and more
than once I was painfully puzzled how to answer their innocent
questions—their expressions of doubt and utter astonishment. For
instance, when a certain royal lady in the piece advanced with martial
stride, and, giving her lord a sounding box on the ear, desired him
summarily to “shut up,” one of them turned wonderingly to me and
said, “ Why does everybody laugh, mamma? I think that lady is a
little rude, isn’t she?” Later on, I was glad their ignorance stood
their friend, when the same exalted personage informed us that “ all
her clothes were up the spout, but, alas! the money to get them out was
far, far away!” Does anyone see the faintest sparkle of childish fun
in this? Surely the play would have been quite as amusing and more
intelligible to the little audience, if the good old nursery rhyme on
which it was founded, had been literally and faithfully followed—if

660 "The Christmas Pantomime.

the king, instead of cowering pitifully before the assaults of his
aggressive spouse, had borne himeelf in martial and kingly fashion,
and, with all due pomp and ceremony, had brought the peculating
knave to that condign and immediate justice which children always
enjoy and understand. The queen would have been fully as interesting
if she had never raised her voice or her hands at all, save in the gentle
and domestic occupation mentioned in the text:
“The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts
All on a summer day ;”

a graceful and appropriate employment for the fair hands of a true
“ladye” or “loaf-giver” of the olden time, and one perhaps not
unlikely te awaken admiring imitation among the little modern fine
ladies present.

If, as Ihave heard it asserted, these interpolations are made for
the benefit of the top gallery, it is difficult to understand why the top
gallery should encroach on the rights of the children. The year is
long, the children get only a month of it, give it to them then, entirely
and altogether. Let it be bright, humorous, laughable, but also pure,
clear, and innocent as their own white souls. Give them music by all
means, there can hardly be too much of it; but not blended with allu-
sions to the pawnbroker (as in the ditty above quoted) nor with words
like the following, from the same evening’s entertainment :—

“ Och! we're the boys that loves a fight,
Crackin’ skulla is our delight,” &c., &c.

the entire elegant composition being entitled “The Mud Island
Fusiliers!’”” I remember, some time ago, that a sketch in Punch,
representing the Irish peasant as “delighting” in something of the
Kind, awakened a good deal of righteous indignation on this side
of the channel, and a strong protest against Saxon prejudice. Now,
the individual who sang the ‘‘Mud Island Fusiliers” here in this
capital city of Ireland, in the dress and character of an Irish peasant,
presented as low and brutal and utterly unnatural a travesty on that
truest of nature’s gentlemen, as the most violently anti-Irish stage
could create.*

But why (I cannot help saying it again) why make such interpola.
tions at all? Why not keep to the children, and the giants, and the
genii, and the fairies? The dear old fairies! let us have them | always,
as prettily surrounded, as beautifully dressed (and sufficiently) an pos-
sible: it does even the old folks good to get back again into the old

* Why do not Irish audiences bias the stage Irishman as an insulting carica-
ture, instead of greeting him with approving laughter? And why do patriotic
journals publish Irish stories of which the hero's strong pointeare vulgarity,
brogue, and blackguardiem P— Ep. I. M.

Sra re

wer Bs Se So

The Christmas Pantomime. 661

green hills, and to people them with elves, and fays, and leprechauns
again. But don’t let the lovely columbine dance with the

or (as I saw her last year), turn into a saucy maid-of-all-work, and,
with the blossoms of a fairy-land still clinging round her, put her arms
a-kimbo, and give impertinence to her mistress. Then, the boys’
peculiar property, the harlequinade—make it funnier, cleverer, more
amusing (it might easily be so) but eliminate the idle cruelty, the dull
coarseness that invariably characterise it, and that often take the place
of any wit or talent.

There is a half-unconscious element of cruelty, born of thought-
lessness, in the nature of many boys, requiring the most delicate atten-
tion and care to counteract. Now, can you imagine anything more
exactly adapted to strengthen, nay, actually to inculcate such a dispo-
sition than the following very usual episode in every pantomime? The
clown and pantaloon attack a poor, ugly, ill-dressed old woman,
altogether unoffending, drag away her parcels, pull off her bonnet and
shawl, and running off with the same, leave her helpless and gesticulat-
ing wildly on the ground. Every boy in the theatre joins in the laugh
at her, because she is old and ugly, ill-treated and helpless—a fine,
manly, chivalrous feeling to encourage in the boyish mind!

Since I began putting these ideas into words, I met accidentally
(and it strengthened very much my conviction of the necessity there is
to ventilate the subject) an article on the very point in question from
the pen of one of the deepest thinkers and noblest writers of the day.
Speaking of a London pantomime (in the year 1872) he says: “ It
depended throughout for its success on an appeal to the lowest vices of
the London populace.” A short sentence, but a pithy one : think of ita
moment: the lowest vices of the London populace brought before the
eyes of little children! Going more into detail, he describes the one
redeeming feature of the night’s performance, and the reception thereof
by the audience. ‘And then the little lady I told you of, a child eight
or nine years old, danced a pas-de-deur with the donkey. She was not an
infant prodigy, there was no evidence in her performance that she had
been put to continual torture through half her little life— she danced her
little dance as a child ought, with perfect grace, spirit, sweetness, and
self-forgetfulness; and, through all the vast theatre, full of English
fathers, and mothers, and children, there was not one hand lifted to
give her a sign of praise but mine.”

“ Presently after this” (goes on the narrator) ‘‘came on the forty
thieves; who, as I told you, were girls, and there being no thieving
to be immediately done, and time hanging heavy on their heads, arms,
and legs, the forty girl-thieves proceeded to light forty cigars. Where-
upon the British public proceeded to give them a round of applause.
‘Whereupon, I fell a thinking” (concludes Mr. Ruskin), “ and saw
little more of the piece save as an ugly and disturbing dream.”

Vou, x1u., No. 150. 49

662 Left Behind.

Due subject for disturbance truly, to any thinking mind!

Do they know what vile work they are doing who present such
sights and sounds to the innocent minds of our children? Do they
think it matters not because the little ones are little, that for that
reason they will forget, will come forth unharmed ? Forget, at a time
of life when every light impression grows and deepens, even as the
rings widen in the water when you throw a stone in. Listen to one
last word on that point, from the same great writer and reformer I
have quoted before; hear what John Ruskin has to say of the conse-
quences of the slightest taint of evil contaminating the mind of a
child :—

“The whole period of youth is one essentially of formation,
edification, instruction (I use the words with their weight in them),
‘n-taking of stores, establishment in vital habits, hopes, and faiths.
here is not one hour of it but is trembling with destinies, not a
moment, of which, once past, the appointed work can ever be done
again, or the neglected blow struck on the coldiron. Take your vase
of Venice glass out of the furnace, and strew chaff over it in its
transparent heat, and recover that to its clearness and rubied glory
when the north wind has blown upon it; but do not think to strew
chaff over the child fresh from God's presence, and to bring the
heavenly colours back to him—at least in this world.”

LEFT BEHIND.

EART of my heart, and hast thou crossed death’s sea,
While my life-weighted feet lag slow behind P
Do mine ears catch thy farewell on the wind,
Thy last sweet words for lovingest memory ?
Art thou indeed for ever gone from me?
Oh bitter life, grown sudden bleak, and blind !
Oh tear-brimmed eyes, that seek yet may not find
Thee, nor alas the merest shadow of thee! .

Heart of my heart, thou hast the rose-sweet ways
Set for thy treading, and the lute's glad song
In thine ears soundeth as the angels play ;
No pain or sorrow dims thy golden days ;
Safe in Christ's heaven, glad art thou, and strong,
‘Yet, love, remember, as an angel may!
Evarrn. Pree.

( 663 )

OUR POETS.

No. XV.—Maay E. BLAgg,

Tre years ago we concluded a slight notice of the poems of

‘¢Thomasine” (known in Ireland as Miss Olivia Knight, and in
Australia as Mrs, Hope Connolly), with the following worda* “A
writer in the Irish Fireside said lately that Eva and Speranza had no
successors. We could name, if we dared, three or four daughters of
Erin whom we believe to be singing now from a truer and deeper
inspiration and with a purer utterance.” Happily, since these words
were printed, two of these unnamed rivals whom we set up against
the gifted wife of the new M.P. elect for Meath, and against the more
gifted widow of Sir William Wilde, have placed their names on the
titlepages of collections of their poems. We allude of course to the
two who are mentioned in the opening paragraphs of our notices of
New Books in this present Number—Katharine Tynan and Rosa Mul-
holland. Not only these whose place in literature is already secured,
but higher than some to whom the enthusiasm of a political crisis gave
prominence we should be inclined to rank such Irish songstresses as
the late Attie O'Brien and the living but too silent “ Alice Esmonde.”
And then of Irishwomen living outside Ireland we have Fanny Parnell,
Fanny Forrester, Eleanor Donnelly, and the lady whom we claim as our
own in the title of this paper—Mrs, Mary E. Blake. Though the wife,
we believe, of a physician at Boston, she was born at Clonmel, and
bore the more exclusively Celtic name of Magrath.+

Boston claims, or used to claim, to be the literary metropolis of the
United States. A prose volume by Mrs. Blake and a volume of her
poems lie before us, and for elegance of typography do credit to their
Boston publishers. “On the Wing ”—lively sketches of a trip to the
Pacific, all about San Franciseo and the Yosemite Valley, and Los
Angeles, and Colorado, but ending with this affectionate description of
Boston aforesaid.

And now, as the evening sun drops lower, what fair city is this that rises
in the east, throned like a queen sbove the silver Charles, many-towered and
pinnacled, with clustering roof and taper spire? How proud she looks, yet
modest, as one too sure of her innate nobility to need adventitious aid to impress
others. Look at the esthetic simplicity of her pose on the single hill, which
is all the mistaken kindness of her children has left of the three mountains

* Inte Morruty, Vol. xi, page 522.

+ Amongst American women we fear we cannot claim Nora Perry, in spite
of her Christian name; but the father of Miss Louise Quiney was an Irishman.
Both of these show a fresh and bright talent which lifts them far, above
feminine verse-writers.

664 Our Poets.

which were her birthright. Behold the stately avenues that stretch by bridge
and road, radiating her lavish favours in every direction; look at the spreading
suburbs that crowd beyond her gates, more beantifal than the parks and pleasure
grounds of her less favoured sisters. See where she sits, small but precious,
her pretty feet in the blue waters that love to dally about them; her pretty
head, in its brave gilt cap, as near the clouds as she can manage to get it ; her
arms full of whatever is rarest, and dearest, and best. For doesn't she hold
the “ Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” and Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, and
Harvard College? Do net the fiery eloquence of Phillipe, the songs of Long-
fellow, the philosophy of Fisk, the glory of the Great Organ, and the native
lair of culture, belong to her? Ah! why should we not “tell truth and
shame the devil ”—doesn’t she bring to us the bebies and the family doctor ?

But it is not as a writer of prose that Mrs. Blake has secured a
niche in our gallery of literary portraits. Indeed, without knowing it,
we have already introduced her poetry to our readers: for we are
pleased to find in her volume of collected poems an anonymous piece
which we had gathered as one of our “ Flowers for a Child’s Grave,”
from a number of “The Boston Pilot” as far back as 1870. We
should reprint page 171 of this volume if it were not already found in
our eighth volume (1880) at page 608. The division of Mre. Blake’s
poems to which it belongs contains, we think, her best work. Her
muse never sings more sweetly than in giving expression to the joy
and grief of a mother’s heart. The verses just referred to were the
utterance of maternal grief: a mother’s joy breaks out into these
pleasant and musical stanzas :—

My little man is merry and wise,
Gay as a cricket and blithe as a bird ;
Often he laughs and seldom he cries,

Chatters and coos at my lightest word :
Peeping and creeping and opening the door,
Clattering, pattering over the floor,

In and out, round about, fast as he can,—
So goes the daytime with my little man.
‘My little man is brimfal of fun,
Always in mischief and sometimes in grief;
Thimble and scissors he hides one by one,

Till nothing is left but to catch the thief;
Sunny hair, golden fair, over his brow—
Eyes ao deep, lost in sleep, look at him now ;
Baby feet, dimpled sweet, tired as they ran,
So goes the night-time with my little man.

My little man with cherry-ripe face,

Pouting red lips and dimpled chin,

Fashioned in babyhood’s exquisite grace,
Beauty without and beauty withio,—

Our Poets, 665

Full of light, golden bright, life as it seems,
Not a tear, not a fear, knows in thy dreams ;
‘Kisses and blisses now make up its span,
Could it be always so, my little man P
My little man the years fly away,
‘Chances and changes may come to us all,—
DI look for the babe at my side some day,
And find him above me, six feet tall;
Flowing beard hiding the dimples I love,
Grizzled locks shading the clear brow above,
Youth’s promise ripened on Nature’s broad plan,
And nothing more left me of my little man,
My little man,—when time shall bow,
With ita hoary weight, my head and thine,—
‘Will you love me then es you love me now,
‘With sweet eyes looking so fond in mine?
However strangely my lot may be cast,
My hope in life’s future, my joy in life’s past,
Loyal and true as your loving heart can,
Say, will you always be my little man P
‘My little man! perchance the bloom
Of the hidden years, as they come and pass,
May leave me alone, with a wee, wee tomb
Hidden away in the tangled grass,
Still as on earth, so in heaven above,
Near to me, dear to me, claiming my love,
Safe in God's sunshine, and filling his plan,
Still be forever my own little man.

Perhaps our Irish poetess in exile— Boston does not consider itself
a place of exile—would prefer to be represented by one of her more
serious poems; and probably she had good reasons for placing first in
her volume the following which is called “ The Master’s Hand.”

The scroll was old and gray;
The dust of time had gathered white and chill
‘Above the touches of the worker’s skill,

‘And hid their charm away.

The many passed it by;
For no sweet curve of dainty face or form,
‘No gleam of light, or flash of colour warm,
Held back the careless eye.

But when the artist came,
With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense,
‘He seemed to catch a sense of power intense
That filled the dusky frame.

Mrs. Blake in one point does not resemble the two Irish woman-
poets—for they are more than poetesses—whom we named together at
the beginning of this little paper. Ireland and the Blessed Virgin
have not in this Boston book the prominence which Miss Mulholland
gives them in the volume which is just issuing from Paternoster-
square, The Irish-American lady made her selection with a view to
the tastes of the general public; but the general public are sure to be
won by earnest and truthful feeling, and an Irish and Catholic heart
cannot be truthful and earnest without betraying ite devotion to the

. Our Poets.
‘And when with jealous care

* Hie hand had cleansed the canvas, line by line,

Behold! The fire of perfect art divine,

‘Had burned its impress there!

Upon the tablet glowed,
Made priceless by the arch of time they spanned,
The touches of the rare Old Master’s hand,

The life his skill bestowed.

God whom we adore!"
Give us the watchful sight, to see and trace,

_ Thy living semblance in each human face

However clouded o’er.

Give us the power to find,
However warped and grimed by time and sin,
‘Thine impress stamped upon the soul within,
Thy signet on the mind.
Not ours the reckless speed
‘To proudly pass our brother's weakness by,
And turning from his side with careless eye,
To take no further heed;
But, studying line by line,
Grant to our hearts deep trust and patient skill,
To trace within his soul and spirit still
Thy Master Hand divine !

Madonna and Erin.

( 667.)

‘WINGED WORDS.
Ir is my conviction that especially in matters where many varied and
at times conflicting interests are involved, legislation to be effective
should be confined within the narrowest limits consistent with the
attainment of the object which it has in view.—Most Rev. W. Walsh,
D.D.

How hard it is sometimes to cure a slight sprain! So it is also
in social life. An open rupture is often easier to repair than strained
relations.— 7. X.

Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vioe only by
overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every
moment,— Ymaraon.

Politeness is the poetry of conduct, and like poetry, it has many
qualities. Let not your politeness be too florid, but of that gentle
kind which indicates refined nature.—Anon.

However great may have been the intellectual triumphs of the
nineteenth century, we can hardly think so highly of its achievements
as to imagine that in less than twenty years we have passed from com-
plete ignorance to almost perfect knowledge on two such vast and
complex subjects as the origin of species and the antiquity of man.—
Alfred Wallace.

Human nature is a greater force even than laws of political
economy, and the Almighty Himself has implanted in the human
breast that passionate love of country which rivets with irresistible
attraction the Esquimaux to his eternal snows, the Arab to his sandy
desert, and the Highlander to his rugged mountains.—Joseph Cham-
berlain.

To no people on earth can death be made so sweetly acceptable as
to the faithful among the Irish poor.— Hiss Mulholland’s ‘‘ Marcella
Grace.”

Recreation is likely to be more truly worthy of the name if it is not
made the chief object of life, and when it has not become the weary
toil that unrestricted amusement is apt to degenerate into.—Anon.

With true orators success is won by the long continued work which
supplies the hard facts and telling truths for which eloquent words
are but the vehicle. Powder, no doubt, is very useful in war; it makes
the most noise, but it is the bullets and shells that silence the enemy.
—Bev. William Delaney, 8.7.

Enjoy present pleasures in such a way as not to injure future ones.

. —Beneca

The best education in the world is that got by straggling for a
living.— Wendell Phillips.

668 Notes on New Books.

Give what you have. To some one it may be better than you dare
“to think.—Longfellow.
Organizations may change or dissolve, but when parties cease to
exist liberty will perish.— Garfield.
‘What greater calamity can fall upon a nation than the loss of wor-
ship? Then all things go to decay.— Emerson.
Nothing makes a man so contented as an experience gathered from
a well-watched past.— Norman Macleod.

NEW BOOKS.

‘We must begin our book-notes this month with two excellent bits of
Trish literary news. Tho first is that Miss Katharine Tynan’s poems
have in five months reached a second edition—a proof of popularity
which, after a much longer interval, falls to the lot of very few
volumes of poetry, even those bearing the names of distinguished men.

The second piece of good news is that the same publishers (Messrs.
Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co., of 1 Paternoster-square, London), have
in the press another volume of poems, for which we guarantee a similar
destiny. Miss Rosa Mulholland has given to this first collection of
her poems—which are true poetry of a very high and perfect kind—
the far too modest name of “ Vagrant Verses.” We shall watch with
curiosity the opinions pronounced by English and American critics on
a book which we believe to be one of the most exquisite additions that
Trish genius has ever made to that very glorious literature, which has
a place not only for Shakespeare and Milton, but also for (Gerald
Griffin and Oliver Goldsmith.

‘What pleases us best in the last number of The Irish Ecclesiastical
Record is not either of the learned essays by the Rev. Walter Mac
Donald of Maynooth, or the Rev. Edward O’Dwyer of Limerick; nor
even Mr. Bedford's picturesque “ Fragments of a Broken Tour;” but
the announcement that henceforth the magazine will be increased by
an addition of half as many pages as now make up a Number, while
the price will remain the same. Ninety-six pages of such varied
interest for priestly readers, coming free by post month after month
for a year, and all for half-a-sovereign paid in advance! May as good
value be received for every five florins expended between this and
Little Christmas !

A small “ Life of St. Vincent de Paul,” published by Burns and
Oates, is very neatly “gotten up,” as our Yankee cousins say. It is